


Faceless

by zonegoose



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anonymous Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Choking, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Pet Names, Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Sexting, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zonegoose/pseuds/zonegoose
Summary: George is a worker at a high-end, secretive bordello named 'Faceless:' coined for the policy that every visitor and employee has to wear fully covering, customized masks at all times to conceal identities. As a coveted member, George has gotten used to handling arrogant men with 'big money' and even bigger attitudes, but his newest client begins to undo everything he thought he knew about himself. A man, who goes by the name: 'Dream.'-“No taking off your mask, or mine. No contact of mouth to skin. No use of harmful items that can puncture or wound.  No advancement without proper preparation. Any attempts to contact me outside of this room will be interfered with by our protective services. No names,” he recites. “No questions. No faces."
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 125
Kudos: 1183





	Faceless

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi! super long work for me, but I hope you enjoy. Few things about this au for clarity:  
> \- All masks are customized, so George's looks something like [this sketch](https://bit.ly/3plsvYL) my friend designed, definitely helps with visualizing it :)  
> \- Dream's mask looks along the lines of [this](https://www.etsy.com/listing/544551045/smile-version-2-resin-cast-mask?gpla=1&gao=1&&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=shopping_us_halloween_Accessories&utm_custom1=_k_EAIaIQobChMIqLXgnvrd7gIV0RZ9Ch21NQv9EAkYAyABEgJvF_D_BwE_k_&utm_content=go_1707961854_69268682609_331635230346_pla-294930372950_m__544551045_101390915&utm_custom2=1707961854&gclid=EAIaIQobChMIqLXgnvrd7gIV0RZ9Ch21NQv9EAkYAyABEgJvF_D_BwE)  
> \- The rules inside 'Faceless' are no face revealing, mouths/kissing, sharing of personal info, breaking any contracts or doing things that aren't apart of the pre-registration for appointments
> 
> TW: there is some briefly mentioned, past non-con material around the 14k word mark. Nothing heavy or graphic at all but figured I should preface it anyway.

Dark swaths of red curtains sway idly as George traces a lazy finger over the fabric folds. If he extended the forearm his cheek is resting on, he could tug the drapes from the wall, and wrap himself to sleep in minutes. 

The clientele has been slow moving and entirely unexciting today. After working at the high-end bordello for the past year and a half, he’s begun to be requested for midweek hours. Not that he minds the sweet visitors who seem to want conversations more than a handjob, but he tends to miss the flashy, rigorous energy of weekend nightlife. 

He’s hardly been ‘wow-ed’ in over two months. His coworkers call them dry-spells, but there’s been nothing dry about it. 

He sighs against the warm skin of his arm. Five minutes have ticked by despite there being no clocks—he’s gotten pretty good at counting in his head to pass the time—and still no sign of his next appointment. They’d requested he pose on the flat, cushioned surface that he has gotten to know very well; face down, back arched, hips raised. 

Lace sinks light patterns into his knees as he shifts his weight, again. The position is a nice stretch, but the warm air and low red light swirling around his head is tempting his eyes to slide shut. 

He’s fallen asleep before, several times. It’s become a ‘thing’ passed around the gossip of their institution—who can keep _Room 404_ awake? Who can tell beneath those goggles if his eyes are _ever_ open?

George does love the anonymity. It’s what drew his younger self to apply for the transfer in the first place—never seeing who is touching him, knowing they can’t trace him down, that everything stays in the masked rooms and hidden buildings. Although; cleaning the light sweat that collects in his full-face cover, and having to occasionally de-smudge the heavily tinted lenses he can barely see through, does edge on his nerves sometimes. 

But the sex is good, and the money is _great_. He’s given benefits and endless amounts of financial freedom, since the only members who can schedule appointments at the institution have to be at the top of the food chain. When rich men have everything, they’re always left wanting more.

George blinks blearily behind his dark goggles. The shapes of the room—the half-bed, the low couch, the minibar—are nearly indistinguishable. Blind as a bat. He clicks his tongue absently.

He hears the door open, and perks up quickly to re-grasp his slipping professionalism. A light breeze from the black hallway brushes over the back of his thighs, and as always, he resists the urge to shiver. 

“Well,” a low voice says from behind him, and it mingles with the soothing darkness, “hello there.” 

George tilts his head towards the door. He can make out a silhouette; tall and broad. The door slides shut with a gentle click, his posted security guard locking the outside routinely. 

“Welcome,” George says. Once he hears the last bolt slide into place, he speaks again, “You took your time coming to see me.”

Something is hung on the coat rack. Shoes slowly step across the muffled floor. “Ah, yes. Had to sign a few more waivers.” The soft timbre of the stranger’s voice seeps into the air, as his presence draws closer. “I did hate the thought of keeping you waiting.”

George hums lightly, lost as to why chills begin to raise across his skin. “Is this your first time visiting ‘Faceless?’”

“It is.”

“Lucky me,” George says. The stranger chuckles; a deep, warm sound. “Though I am legally required to bore you with a refresher of our rules here, before we begin.”

“Keep talking,” the man replies, patiently. 

“These should be the same as what your documents stated,” he begins. “No taking off your mask, or mine. No contact of mouth to skin unless oral is specifically requested in your pre-logs. No use of harmful items that can puncture the skin, unless specifically requested in your pre-logs. No advancement without proper preparation. Any attempts to contact me outside of this room will be interfered with by our protective services.” 

“Noted.”

George stretches slightly, flexing his ankles where they’re pressed into the end of the platform. “No names,” he recites. “No questions. No faces.” 

_The tackiest thing ever, scrawled in green ink on all of our advertisements._

“Hm.” A warm hand surprisingly settles on George’s calf. “What should I call you, then?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” George says. The stranger’s touch slowly rises up his stockings, hooking at the bend of his knee. “Is there a name you’d like me to call you?” 

Fingertips ghost up the back of George’s thigh. Nails catch slightly on the soft fabric, and his breath hitches.

“Dream,” the client murmurs. His palm slowly spreads over the lace covering George’s ass. “Call me Dream.” 

“Dream,” George voices to test the word, but it comes out as an unexpected sigh. 

Dream’s other hand settles at the base of George’s spine. “That’s it,” he coos gently, warm fingers sliding up his bare back. “Just like that.”

George feels his cheeks warm at the tilt to his words, progressively wondering _why,_ on a _Wednesday_ , at _two in the afternoon_ , he’s falling into what could be mistaken for excitement. 

Dream’s touch pauses between George’s narrow shoulder blades, then glides over to the crook of his shoulder. “Four-oh-four?”

George’s teeth find his bottom lip beneath his mask to hold back a wince. He normally covers up the numbered tattoo for new clients, since the bordello’s regulars know to not spread identifying information past the secretive walls. Moments like these make him regret ever letting the pink-haired floor dancer anywhere near him with her tattoo gun.

“Yes,” he says, and Dream reads him.

He feels Dream lean over his body, voice suddenly much closer and warmer than before. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t tell.”

The rumble to his words caresses George’s ears, slipping through the darkness like a whispered secret. George leans his hips back in hopes of touching the stranger’s thighs. “You’ve got quite the silver tongue, don’t you?” 

Dream’s fingers skim down George’s sides, running his palms over the cool skin. George can feel him learning. 

“Would you rather I not be so nice?” Dream’s hand slides around George’s waist, and brushes across his lower stomach.

George’s half-bulge concealed in dark underwear twitches, slightly. “You’re putting me to sleep.” 

“Oh,” Dream says, tugging George’s hips against his own sharply, “you have an _attitude_.”

A breath escapes George’s lips. The live wire in him begins to sing. “Isn’t that why you picked me?” 

Dream hums. He pushes his hips flush against the lace of George’s asscheeks. “I heard you liked talk.” His fingers curl into skin and bones. “Didn’t know you had a _mouth_ on you.”

“You’re boring,” George says, because it’s the least bored he’s beginning to feel in months. 

Dream laughs lightly. He moves his large hand to palm George’s hard-on through the thin material. “Oh, am I?” 

George’s eyes flutter under the touch, grinding slowly against the sturdy bulge nudging the curve of his ass. “M-mhm.”

“Look at you,” Dream breathes. He pulls his hand away to rub circles on George’s pale skin. “Getting all desperate.” 

His face burns, fingers curling into the cushions by his head as Dream strokes the length of his inner thigh. The path is tantalizing, and slow. 

“You’re one to talk,” George forces his mouth to work, once again pushing back on the erection pinned against him. “Trying so hard to fuck me already.”

Dream hips jerk, the tent in his pants brushing briefly between George’s asscheeks, and a short breath escapes them both. 

_Fuck_. 

“I think you _want_ me to have you,” his voice scrapes low, fingers hooking into the top of George’s stockings and underwear. “Sounds like you’re used to not being treated the way you fucking should.”

He feels his breath shallowing against the fabric table, rebounding into his nose. He fights the urge to spread his knees. “I’ve had plenty of clients who’ve done a whole lot better than you, by now.”

His clothes are torn down to his knees instantly, and he can’t stop the breathy noise that rushes from his throat. Ass bare, face hot; he can feel the length of his hard cock hanging between his exposed stomach and thighs. 

Dream wraps a hand around him. George bites back another sound. 

“We’ll see how you feel when I’m done with you,” he says, the strain in his voice tipping into a sultry hiss. “You’re going to think about me. You’re not going to _stop_ thinking about me.” He slowly slides his hand up and down George’s flushed cock. 

“Y-you—you’re—” George’s breath shudders when Dream’s other hand brushes a finger over his exposed hole.

“I’m what?” Dream echoes, and George catches wind of the amusement in his voice. 

“You’re an—” His body tips helplessly into Dream’s hands as his warm fingers rub around his rim. “An _asshole_.”

George hears the indistinguishable sound of a metal zipper gliding apart. 

“Filthy,” Dream mutters, “mouth.” He pushes an unexpected, spit-ridden finger past George’s ring of muscle.

George feels himself melt around the sturdy knuckles, face sinking against the cushioned surface as Dream slowly works him open. His mind is somehow present enough to make a comment when the spit dries, and he directs Dream to the nearby table an arms length away.

He waits for Dream to select something from the wide array of lube and toys and lotion. He hears a disapproving sound.

“What, don’t have your favorite?” George mocks, panting slightly. 

Dream pushes on his upper back with a strong, flat palm. His chest sinks further against the table. 

“Yes,” Dream admits. The plastic cap of his lube of choice pops open in the dim-lit room. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” George says, but it dissolves into breathlessness when slick fingers push into him again. 

“Keep apologizing,” Dream teases, pulsing his touch in deep, “I like that.” 

“N-no,” George manages to force out before his voice disappears in a high moan, his neglected cock tensing as Dream finds the bundle of nerves that makes him see white. 

“‘No?’” Dream’s fingers brush again over the sensitive spot that makes George’s thighs jerk beneath him. “I don’t like being told, ‘no.’”

The muscles in George’s back burn with how much he’s arching for Dream, stomach low, falling back into his hands. Between heavy breaths, he repeats, “ _no._ ”

Dream retracts his fingers from George, suddenly leaving him empty. 

A soft whine tears itself from his throat. His hidden cheeks burn red as it rings out into the room. _Betrayal_. 

Dream shushes him, gently. The sound skitters condescendingly across George’s skin. “You want to use your words, pretty boy?” 

George’s nails dig into the velvet blanket beneath him. The stupid, fucking name shouldn’t nestle under his skin like this. 

“I—I…” Fumbling, he squeezes his eyes shut. 

_It’s just a fucking Wednesday, George. What is going on?_

He hears the ripping of a plastic wrapper from behind him. His body sags physically at the sound. 

“I need you,” he whispers, the words falling from him like an open, rushing river. “I need you to fuck me. Please fuck me. Please. Please. Plea—”

Dream groans, low, at the neediness wrapped in the chords of George’s voice. A heavy hand clasps onto George’s ass. “Keep begging, baby. You have no idea how good that sounds.” 

George feels his weakening thighs trembling with anticipation, aroused and cock leaking more than he has in months. For once, he’s _alive_.

“Please, Dream,” he breathes, palms pushing into the table to lean back farther into Dream’s touch. “I’ll do anything, I—I want it.” The realization wracks through him, overwhelming, tightening his throat. “I _want_ it.”

It’s been so long since he’s wanted _anything_. 

He feels Dream’s wrapped cock lower, and plop down against his tailbone between his spread asscheeks. The wind leaves his lungs.

It’s _heavy_. 

“Dream.”

It’s _big._

“Say it,” Dream’s gravely voice nears a guttural growl, “one more time.” 

“Fuck me,” George begs, breathless. Weightless. “ _Please_.” 

Dream’s dick slides back, before he pushes his slick tip against George’s lubed entrance. A deep breath escapes his broad frame as he slowly spreads him open, sinking inside.

He pushes till he bottoms out. George can feel the warmth of his hips and thighs pressed against his own skin. There’s a moment where Dream lightly taps on his lower back, a small question; _you ready?_

George rocks his hips against him in response. 

The moan that leaves Dream’s chest is sinful. His fingers dig into George’s waist, and he begins to thrust slowly. 

“So gentle,” George spills between sharp breaths. “S-so— _ah_ —weak.” 

Dream’s nails rake into George’s skin, hips snapping into him sharply. “Shut up.”

“When I told you—to fuck me—” George digs his heels in the back of Dream’s thighs, moaning quietly as the pace begins to quicken. “I meant _fuck_ me. C-come on, Dream.”

“Not enough?” Dream’s words bite harshly. “God.” His thrusts grow forceful. “What a little _slut_.” 

George doesn’t hide the noise of pleasure that wracks through his body under the blunt name. Dream listens. 

His strong hands grip tight as he pushes his cock into George, over and over again. His hips slap against George’s ass, the sound filling the air, tangled with their moans and George’s whimpers and urgent pleas. 

It feels like the loudest wake-up call George has received in months. For once, when he’s getting the life fucked out of him in the dark, stuffy room, George makes sure his eyes are wide open. 

-

A light hum of muffled voices and faint music floats from the television screen.

George’s head tips back to thump against the gray cushions of his couch. His eyes trace the beams criss crossing on the high ceiling. Dark wood stretches above him. 

Hard wood stirs under his palm. 

An irritated groan leaves his lips, eyes falling back down to his T.V where some half-assed sitcom laughs at him through the speakers. He’d been watching the semi-interesting plot of the episode unfold, but his attention floated away the moment their dialogue slowed. Again.

It’s been four days since he’s been at work. His shifts lightened, almost to mock him, right when he’d wanted to be working the most. 

Four days since Dream touched him. Grabbed him. Fucked him.

He thinks about how the low-voiced stranger left him there, without any trace of a goodbye, ruined and wordless on the half-bedded table. He continuously replays the image in his head; Dream’s dark silhouette disappearing through the open door without a moment's hesitation, watching light leave again as it swung closed behind him. 

George can hardly find the words to understand how he felt. Overstimulated. Empty. Withering. 

_Craving_.

He hates it. He’s never felt it from work, before, though he’s had clients who he’s preferred and appointments he’d get excited for. Very rarely does it follow him home, keep him up late at night, drag his attention away from his television shows because he’s hard _again_ thinking of Dream’s hands and voice. 

His slender fingers brush tiredly over the hard-on in his sweats. It’s not the first time he’s thought of touching himself to the days-old memories. Trapped in his lofty apartment, lounging in cozy clothes while longing for lace and silk, he can’t escape his own head.

 _You’re going to think about me_. 

He palms himself slowly, embarrassed at the excited warmth that blooms in his stomach. 

_You’re not going to_ stop _thinking about me_. 

Dream was right. Absolutely, terrifyingly right. 

George has been at the mercy of his heightened sex drive for long nights, and long showers. It’s unlike anything he’s felt before. After just one taste of those hands, that dick, his _voice_ —George is hooked. 

_At least_ , he thinks, hand slipping under his waistband, _I have work in a few days._

His next shift comes by impossibly slow. 

A small, automated voice reviews the itinerary that he can’t read when wearing his goggles. He leans against the dark oak door, and sighs, the back of his head thumping on the frame.

Punz gives him a nod. The top half of his face is covered by a skeletal design, while the bottom disappears into a steam-punk gold, made of bolts and curving metal. 

He shifts through the keys looped on his metal ring. “Nothing good?” 

George steps out of the way to give him access to the locks, storing the tablet in a sleeve hanging on the wall. “Just regulars. Not feeling it today.” The door swings open. “Sorry for doing this, again. I need to stop letting Nihachu distract me.” 

He’d paused to chat in her dressing room as he usually does after checking the schedule logs, and left his keys on her vanity when adjusting her lipliner. Since his first day of working there, they’d sought each other out, even through the difference of their jobs. Nihachu lives with elegance, beauty, pink outfits and expensive dancing. George’s stage is his leather couch, on the lap of a well-paying man, whispering whatever filthy things he needed to get by.

Even their masks of choice illustrate the difference. A rosé, Venetian-style covering curves cat-eyed over the bridge of Nihachu’s nose, dazzled with bows and beads. The lower half of her face is hidden beneath a glittering curtain, sheer enough to see the soft curve of her lips, jeweled enough to keep the rest of her a secret. 

George’s goggles rest dark and cloudy beneath his brow, clunky and Lovecraftian. From his nose down to where a zipper begins below his chin, is a mesh, black fabric. The zip extends from the base of his neck to his jaw, securing the fabric for even the roughest of days. 

The friendly hearts of the dancers help George breathe, sometimes. Nihachu has returned his blue _404_ keys on more days than George likes to remember, either with her own hands, or more often through his tired security team. 

Punz laughs. “That floor has a way of doing that. And don’t worry about it, man. Let me know if you have any trouble.”

George parts from him with quick words of gratitude, and retreats to the room he amusedly calls his ‘office.’ He traces over the cushioned bed he’s laid on hundreds of times, and rolls his eyes when he thinks of Dream, standing behind him, thighs pressed to the edge as his groans tore through the room. 

When his regulars filter in over the course of the day, he finds himself hoping, the tiniest amount, that a certain stranger with strong hands and a soothing voice would walk in instead. 

Days pass with similar blandness. He falls asleep, and is slapped awake once. Work floats by him as usual, new positions, same hands, more money and sweet compliments. He’s told he’s pretty; he’s made to feel good. After enough hours of adjusting his goggled mask, sneaking breaks to visit the dancer’s floor, conversing idly with security stationed in the hall—he gives up on the idea of his favorite stranger ever coming back.

Nearly a week after their first meeting, George moseys in his room during another particularly slow day. His client from hours before had drained nearly all of the whiskey bottles in his mini-fridge. 

He crouches by the cool opening, and tuts in disdain. He unzips his mask to tip the last, amber-colored shooter down his throat, and tosses it in the trash. 

_Should probably text Quackity for a restock_ , he notes to himself. The loose-lipped bartender three floors down loves to give George the worst brands he can find, only when George doesn’t comply with being his test-bunny for experimental cocktails. More bottles for his room means committing to a night of suspiciously rum-ridden drinks. 

He sidles back onto the bed, propping himself up on his knees. He readjusts his mask before sinking his face against the red cushions. 

He waits, mind wandering dazedly. 

The door opens. He doesn’t turn to look. 

It slides shut, followed by several exterior locks falling into place. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” comes the warm greeting of the client. “Did you miss me?”

George’s body reacts immediately at the sound of Dream’s voice. The pulse in his chest and throat flares, blood rushing to blossom on his cheeks. Sudden elation rises in him so quickly that he nearly forgets to speak. 

“I should’ve known it was you,” George says, arching his back to further put his lingeried ass on display. His heart pounds. “Only you ask to see me like this.” 

_Come closer,_ he wants to whisper. _Come touch._

The coat rack complains. He hears the sound of fabric being pushed up forearms. 

“Mm.” Dream’s tone drops playfully, “I ask, because you’re made for it.”

George’s eyes flutter. “Am I?” His fingers itch to curl into the blanketed foundation beneath him.

His head swims with the recollection of the week before, the size of Dream’s body and the way he filled every inch of him. He sinks his teeth into his lip to hide the changing patterns of his breath.

Dream hums. 

A warm hand settles on the side of George’s waist. His body tenses in surprise, seemingly unaware of when Dream had moved towards him. 

“You make it look so comfortable,” Dream teases lightly. “All bent over, for me.” 

“It’s hardly for you.”

Dream’s hand squeezes his side; a warning. A breath escapes George’s lips. 

“Still razor-sharp, I see.” Dream settles both hands on George’s ass. “If only you could see yourself like this. So small, so patient.” He explores the thinly-veiled flesh with sprawled fingers, nails biting in. “So _pretty_.”

Before he can stop himself, George leans back heavy into Dream’s touch. His knees spread. His body aches. 

“Oh,” Dream breathes. “Someone’s excited.”

George wants to recoil with a bitter response, but he is desperate for every millisecond of contact between Dream’s hands and his skin. He hangs his head down, forehead resting on the table. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, unsure why it comes out so hollow. So obvious. 

Dream slowly pulls George’s thighs back, pressing his hips up against him. “Did you miss me?” he repeats, but there’s no trace of amusement anymore. It’s a dark question, made for their dark room, and George’s even darker secrets. 

He screws his eyes shut, and whispers, “Yes, sir.” 

Dream lets out a low huff. “How often did you think of me?” 

A quiet sound passes through George’s lips, unwinding at the hands traveling up his back. “I couldn’t stop,” he confesses. “I’d close my eyes, and you were there. I kept touching myself just to get that feeling back, and—and when I let them fuck me, I wished it was you. I couldn’t stop wishing it was you.”

“Jesus.” Dream’s hand slides down his front, to cup the throbbing erection in George’s underwear. “ _Jesus_. You’re already a mess, baby.” 

“Tell me you wanted me,” George finds himself saying, cheek pressing into the soft mesh of his mask as he feels his restraint slipping. Dream’s fingers rub over the precum soaking through his fabric. “Tell me you thought about me, too.”

“Oh, I _did,_ ” Dream assures. 

His large body drapes over George’s frame, head hanging closer to George’s ear than it ever has before. 

The cool surface of his mask bumps George’s shoulder. “I couldn’t get you off my fucking mind.” 

George arches underneath him to desperately press their bodies together. A sturdy forearm snakes around his waist; he’s pulled in tight.

“I tried to stay away,” Dream says. His taut arm is trembling against George’s stomach. “I tried so badly to forget about you. You and your noises—” His fingers dig into George’s ribs, tearing out a soft cry. “Your thighs. Your hips. The—the way you _shook_ when I fucked you.”

George moves his hips against him helplessly. He wants to share the taste of whiskey on his tongue. 

“But I couldn’t just have you once,” he growls. His fingers suddenly tangle in George’s hair. “I needed more. _You_ needed more.”

He yanks sharply, and George’s mouth falls open in a broken moan. 

They quickly descend down a crazed, filthy path. 

George wants to burn every grab and stroke into his present mind, but the way that Dream touches him makes memory fall away. Their movements are frenzied and furious; George knows he is moaning and exposed, knows Dream is shoving fingers inside of him, but he feels reduced to a place of truly knowing nothing at all. 

He _does_ know that he’s embarrassed after Dream lets him adjust to his covered cock, because the sound that leaves his throat on the first thrust is _loud_. 

Dream thrusts again. 

George stifles it. His head tips back in the tight grip Dream has on his brown locks. 

“Don’t,” Dream grits, “be quiet. You’re going to let me hear you. Okay?” 

He slowly draws himself out, the tip of the condom resting just inside George’s rim, before he drives in again. 

“Dream,” George whines, hand rising to clasp at the wrist pinned to his hair. 

His hips snap. “Louder.”

George’s body trembles as he opens his mouth, but no noise comes out. He rocks back into Dream’s thrusts, crazed, trying to make him reach the deep place that his own fingers haven’t been able to graze in their time apart. 

A heavy, flat hand smacks into George’s ass. He moans and his muscles clench around Dream in shock. His skin begins to sting where the harsh fingers rapped against him. 

Dream spanks him again. “ _Louder_.”

George cries out Dream’s name with so much force that it scrapes in his throat. He can’t stop the flurry of noises that spill from his lips, sensitive to every jerk of Dream’s body and slap of his hand. 

His scalp aches. His ass hurts. 

Dream’s cock finds and abuses George’s prostate with deep, unrelenting thrusts, making his jaw slack and eyes loll beneath the murky goggles. 

“Again,” George pleads. 

Dream’s hand claps down against him. He whines. 

“ _Again_.”

“Slut,” Dream hisses. He lets go of George’s hair, causing his face to drop into the bed. “Can never get enough.” His thumb slips past George’s rim, shoving inside and stretching him even more as he slams in and out. “Little _whore_.”

“I’m—I’m—” George’s words muffle; his moans take control. 

Dream grunts, and bends over the table he’s already slung one knee upon. The noise sounds clearer than before, as if freed from a blocking layer. The undone buttons of his shirt shift against George’s back. 

“Oh yeah, baby?” His hips tweak their angle. He continues between pants, “You gonna cum without my hands on you?”

“Please, let me,” is all George can force out, muscles tensing as he feels himself pushed closer and closer. With every thrust, Dream’s chest falls against George’s small back.

He feels Dream’s breath blow on his skin, hot and heavy. 

A startled gasp escapes him. “Your—your—”

“It’s on,” Dream assures. His words brush across George’s neck. “Still on. Just needed to— _fuck_ —breathe.”

George reaches up to check, fingers brushing the ceramic, finding the clasp still intact on the back of Dream’s hair. Still on, just partially.

George feels blind, on the verge of euphoria, and chases something wrong. 

He tugs Dream’s head down, sinking his forbidden lips against the skin of his own shoulder. 

Dream moans, and the vibrations skitter across George’s masked neck. George locks his shaking fingers in Dream’s soft hair, begging for more. The fire in him burns impossibly bright. 

He can’t recall the last time he had someone's lips on him. 

Sharp teeth dig into the flesh of George’s shoulder. Dream bites exactly where the tattooed numbers brand his pale skin.

George cums immediately, letting out a choked moan. 

“ _Oh_.” Dream’s thrusts slow down as tremors wrack through George’s white-hot body. “You’re a _dirty_ little thing.”

All George’s head can do is bob helplessly as his body grows limp, cum covering his cock and the sheets he’s brushing on below. His tip pulses through the violent, messy release. 

Dream continues to pound into his sensitive nerves as if his stall never occurred. His hands soothe George’s sides and ass spanked-red. 

_Not allowed_ , George’s brain tries to piece together as the overstimulation tears high whines from his throat. _His lips. His teeth. Not allowed._

“Dream,” he croaks brokenly. His body shifts with every overpowering yank onto Dream’s dick. 

“A-almost, sweetheart.” Dream groans when George tightens around him, hips beginning to stutter. “Fuck. Almost.”

Mind railed into a babbling bliss, George finds himself whispering, “Own me.” His thighs and arms and core tremble as he’s used mercilessly for Dream’s pleasure. “Y-yours. Yours.”

Dream’s cum spills into him as his wild thrusts tip, and then slow. The condom catches the warmth, but George can feel the way he throbs, buried deep inside him. He stays, panting. The palms Dream has curled into the table are shaking. 

“Fucking christ,” he breathes, and George feels him pulling out.

“Slower,” he pleads. 

Dream moves slower. When he’s fully departed and tugging off the condom, George sinks into the bed.

Completely spent, he lets his chest rise and fall against the warm, dirtied blankets. His brain is tattered. His heart pounds.

“Perfect,” George murmurs, because he doesn’t know what else could capture what they’d just done. 

He hears the condom drop into the waste bin. 

This is the part where the clients grow silent; zip up their pants, re-adorn their coats, knock on the door and part without a single word. George is familiar with this moment. He lives in it. He owns it. 

Because it’s where he’s reminded it’s always just a job, just a check—the humanity of connection slips by him when he recognizes the clients hardly see him as human at all.

Dream left, last time. He left, George cleaned, and the next client did the same—just as everyone else.

George’s lids flutter shut under the dark goggles. 

Warm fingers gently settle on the base of George’s back.

“You’re perfect,” Dream murmurs, and George’s eyes fly wide open.

His touch trails up George’s spine, rising a wave of light goosebumps on the skin that he’d clawed minutes prior. He dips into the dark tangles of George’s hair, tracing with what feels like an apology over the locks that he’d tugged on. His thumb brushes over the clasps at the base of his skull that keep George’s mask on tight. 

George cannot form words to navigate the foreign feelings stirring in his gut. 

_His mouth, his bite._

He feels himself sigh when Dream lingers on the teeth marks. 

_His touch. His kindness._

And then he’s gone—crossing the room and tapping knuckles to the door and disappearing before George has the half-mind to lift his head and watch. 

The door shuts. 

George stares at the dark frame, and all he can think about is ‘ _dirty little thing.’_

-

“Have you ever served a customer who goes by ‘Dream?’” George asks, guiding the plastic straw in his hands to twirl the ice in his glass. 

Quackity tosses him a black coaster from behind the bar. “Who’s askin’?” 

George lifts his drink to reset it against the small square, and sighs. It’d been a few days since Dream last visited—he worked for two, moped at home playing memories on repeat for the rest. He had one appointment today that was cut short, as many first-timers are prone to do. They’re all the same, early twenty-somethings with daddy’s money, invited by a powerful uncle but too scared to go farther the moment George asks for it rough.

He could’ve gone home, but found himself accompanying his favorite bartender instead.

“Just me,” he replies, taking a sip of the rum-saturated drink. “He’s a newcomer and I’m just curious about him.”

Quackity grins, the motion lifting the bird-like mask that covers the top of his features. “What’s he look like?”

“Shut up,” George mumbles. He rubs his jaw—he’d unzipped the lower part of his mask once Quackity assured the bar room was locked during his lunch break—and takes another sip. “If I had to describe, I think the mask is ceramic. It feels rounded. He’s tall. And big. Nice voice, nicer hands.” 

“Man. Why don’t you just suck this guy’s dick instead?”

George rolls his eyes. “I would if I could. His papers are only traditional requests, though.” 

Quackity tugs a rag into his hands to clean a dripping glass. “When did you say he first showed up?”

“Around two weeks ago.” 

Another cherry is dropped into George’s drink. He smiles gratefully under the bunched up fabric on his nose and cheeks.

“There was this dude I hadn’t seen before, who hung out here when I was finishing my midday,” Quackity says. “Could fit your description. I talked to him for a bit before I passed him off to Foxface.” 

“You know Fundy doesn’t like when you call him that,” George reprimands lightly. He can’t hide the curiosity from his tone. “What did the mask look like?”

“Kinda creepy, kinda cool. White with the eyes cut out and some cracked, half-smile.” Quackity flips the cup in his hand idly. “He was super friendly, though. Guy knows how to talk a room.”

George hums, his interest piqued. “What’d he drink?”

Quackity laughs. “Go ask the check-in for his receipts if you wanna know so bad, Fourhead.”

George complains at the nickname, downs the rest of his drink, and relaxes with Quackity until his break is over. He tears himself from the bar and decides to finally leave work for the day.

Before he exits, though, he stalls at the check-in reception. Green-haired ‘Awesamdude’ has been working behind the counter on days when the other bouncers cover his shifts, and he waves when he sees George approaching.

“Hi, 404,” he greets. “What can I do for you?” 

George’s fingers drum on the counter, sliding his keycard and chain towards him. “Just leaving.” He glances away from the glass barrier.

Awesamdude hangs the dangle of room keys on a hook, and nudges his card back. “You’re all set.”

George hesitates before grabbing it. “Thanks.”

He tilts his head at George. “You sure there isn’t something else I can help you with?” 

George bites his cheek, then leans closer to the window. “Yes, actually. I’ve been visited by the same client twice, he says he’s new here and operates under the cognomen ‘Dream.’ I was wondering if he’s a regular member?” He watches as Awesamdude turns to flit through a nearby file cabinet. “Just so I can know when to expect him.” 

“Floor six, Sunday visit…” Awesamdude mumbles, then his fingers snag on a paper that he draws into the air. “Yeah, I know him. He was invited by Punz.” 

Awesamdude hands him the yellow slip that George immediately recognizes as a request sheet. 

_Requests?_ His stomach flips nervously. _He requested something?_

“Twice,” Awesamdude answers for him, seemingly noting George’s rising confusion. “One was a couple days after his first visit, the second just after his last.” 

George folds the paper in his hands. He’ll read it in the safety of his car, when he’s blocks away from these timeless, stuffy halls. 

“Thanks, Awesam,” he says. He’s met with another wave and what he assumes would be a smile, if he could see under the dark tangles of his gas mask. 

George rushes through a goodbye. His mind floats as he makes his way down the winding security halls, secret back doors for employees, and doesn’t stop _wondering_ until he’s seated in the cold shell of his car. 

Heat slowly leaks through the vents as he waits for the windshield to thaw. His cold fingers reach up to click on the orange, overhead light. 

He slowly unfolds the request form stored in his bag. 

**_REQ. from Mmbr: “Dream.”_ ** _Schedule and hours of Wrkr in Room #404._

George’s cheeks are immediately dusted pink. He feels completely and utterly stupid because of it. 

_He wanted to know my shifts,_ he thinks. _Mine. No one else's._

His eyes slip down the page. 

**_REQ. from Mmbr: “Dream.”_ ** _Upon next visit to Room #404, bring—_

George drops the sheet into the passenger chair. His face burns. 

He cranks the gear shift into drive.

On the one hand, Dream is definitely going to book another appointment, soon. He seems to visit the bordello only when George is working. The elation that stirs in his stomach is red, and consuming.

On the other, George is trying to figure out why that excitement is so embarrassing. Why he keeps glancing at the yellow paper in shotgun, eyes flitting from the road in deep distraction.

Lube. _Lube._ The idiot had put in a special request for his favorite type of lube. 

-

George drives to a shop the next day. He’d checked the local employee store of Faceless’ company, but had failed to find the exact brand his client asked for. So he swallowed his unease with visiting a sex store that doesn’t allow full masks to wander through the aisles, and kept searching. 

Technically, _he_ didn’t have to be the one to buy it. He could easily send a request to a higher up, and have them deliver it to his room before he bats an eye. There are systems in place specifically to keep him from doing things like this. 

His eyes skim over the toys to his left, wandering down the purple-carpeted aisle while a gentle song floats through the shop. He considers buying one, but can’t get sidetracked. 

He doesn’t know why he wants to be the one to buy it for Dream. He finds the wall of lubricants and other scented items, and slowly scans it. Dream won’t know the difference if he’s the one who purchased it or not—so why does it matter so much? 

He stalls, and sighs. After long hours of working, he sometimes finds himself dissociated from seeing human features out in the waking world. When nearly everyone he meets in the sex-scented void is masked and made of fantasies, he tends to lose touch. 

The shop is busy. He feels strange for continuously averting any other customer’s eyes. 

_It’s always easier when you can’t see their faces_ , he muses lightly. 

His gaze snags on familiar words plastered on a bottle. Quickly, he checks his phone to verify it’s the brand he’d searched before coming inside. 

He crouches to pull it off the shelf. The plastic is cool in his palm, and he studies it before rising again. He takes a step backwards, and bumps into the solid warmth of another customer in the aisle.

“Oh, shoot,” he mutters quickly, moving away from them. “So sorry.” 

Humiliation gnaws at his stomach as he skirts out of the aisle. He longs for the comfort of his mask. 

With red cheeks and the bottle of lube in hand, he impulsively grabs the boxed toy he’d been eyeing before as he passes the shelf, and hurries to the counter. 

He leaves with the contents bagged discreetly in his grip. He’s never been happier to have gotten something over with in his life. 

Going to work the following day is easy. His schedule is light, few and far between, and Nihachu had given him half of her grilled cheese sandwich when he’d mentioned he forgot to make breakfast. He had time to clean his goggles, down a gin and tonic in the red light of his room, and reorganize the tray of items that the unopened lube has now joined. 

Easy days, easy money, easy instructions. He hops onto the half-bed and scoots onto his back, laying his sweatered shoulders against the cushions. Head inclined on a pillow, he remembers the upcoming appointments last note, and drags the soles of his knee-high socks across the sheets to spread his legs.

He links his fingers together on his chest, and taps a bored rhythm against his sternum. The sweater he’s been wearing all day is black, laced with sheer thread that covers him with netted holes. It’s cozy.

The client enters. He lets his hands fall to his side. 

“Come on in,” George greets amicably. He thinks about Nihachu’s sandwich, again. Maybe he should stop somewhere after this is done. 

“Hi,” Dream says. 

George has to keep himself from sitting up. 

_Dream?_

His heart and stomach and arousal stir to life in seconds. He subtly pinches the skin of his thigh, ensuring he hasn’t accidentally fallen asleep and dreamed of this moment, again. 

“Hi,” George replies breathlessly. “This is a surprise.” 

“My apologies.” 

The amused, warm timbre to his voice has George growing hard already. He clenches his jaw at his own, rapidly-beating excitement. Three words leave the man’s lips and he’s ready to risk it all. 

“I didn’t think this was your style,” George says. It feels strange to talk to Dream without feeling his breath rebound, face-down on the cushions. His propped up knees tilt together, self-consciously. 

He jumps when Dream’s warm hands wrap around them slowly. The touch surprises him from the dark void of his room. He hadn’t heard him come closer.

Dream pulls his knees apart. “Me neither.” 

George’s breath shallows. Dream’s fingers nearly loop entirely on the thin circumference of his legs.

“Such cute goggles,” Dream says, the words teasing and soft.

_Louder. Little whore. You gonna cum without my hands on you?_

George can hardly believe the biting phrases came from the same mouth that gently caresses his ears now.

Dream’s hands retract from his legs, once again abandoning George in the darkness. 

“You like them?” Through the lenses, George dares to lower his gaze from the ceiling drapes to the silhouette in front of him. He can make out the shape of Dream’s broad shoulders, the outline of his hair; hint of a mask. Any features or details are lost in the darkness and murky state of the glass. 

“Always have,” Dream says. Two, warm fingers brush up George’s inner thigh. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”

Reluctantly, George tilts his head back, and lets his vision go dark. 

Dream’s hands move up to travel over George’s thighs, the motion patient. It’s confusingly soft. Confusingly arousing. 

George feels himself growing antsy, hips yearning to rise into Dream’s touch. “I—I heard you asked for my shifts,” he confesses. 

Dream’s fingers disappear, cold air rushing to fill the space where he’d been. “I did. I wanted to know when I can see you.” 

“To squeeze me in with all your other appointments booked here?” George teases breathlessly, but the curiosity of what he’s nudging at is obvious. His voice rings out into the silent room. 

Confusion floods him. His eyes open, but he doesn’t dare move his head to signal it to Dream. The dark lighting and tinted goggles trap him in blindness. 

He strains his ears to try and catch a hint of where Dream has gone; a shuffle of clothes, perhaps steps of shoes. He can’t hear any sign of movement. 

“I only come here to play with you,” Dream purrs right next to George’s ear. 

The low rumbles cause George’s back to arch suddenly, hands curling into the blankets. The nerves in his body are singing for touch, contact, _anything_. 

“Just me?” His head lolls to the side where Dream’s warm voice had been, but finds nothing.

“That’s right, baby.” Dream’s touch ghosts for a brief second over the curve pressing against George’s underwear. “Just you.”

His hips rise to chase it. Dream chuckles as George slumps back down, unsuccessful.

“Feeling impatient today?” he asks. 

“I’ve missed you,” George murmurs, and he hears Dream’s breath hitch. 

He wraps his hands on George’s legs again, and begins to trail his touch all over his thighs. His fingers knead and stroke the soft, white skin. George spreads himself impossibly wide, guiding Dream’s path to slide closer to his hips. 

“I read your other request,” he says, breath shallowing. 

Dream’s nails graze his hip bones. The softness of his touch feels so _forgiving_ , blooming a low warmth in George that borders on fondness. 

“I bought it myself, just for you,” George murmurs. 

Dream’s hands part from his legs, to carefully draw George’s palms into his grasp. He doesn’t grab them, he _holds_ them, touch feather-light against the soft sheets below. Their fingers link together quietly. 

“I saw you,” he whispers, “at the store. When you bought that.” 

George’s hands tighten against him. His body locks, frozen. “Wh-what?”

“I…” Dream’s touch jerks lightly, as if to retract from George’s panic. “I was planning to purchase it, myself. You bumped into me, and...and I thought I recognized your voice. I wasn’t sure.”

He recalls stumbling into someone’s warm, broad shoulders in the midst of the shop. 

_Of course_. Of course it had to be Dream; George’s life seems to be tilting towards his consuming presence at all four corners. If it weren’t for the overwhelming amount of scented items on the surrounding shelves, could he have placed Dream’s aroma? If he turned, would he have melted at the sight of his true face?

George feels more exposed now—clothed and covered—than he ever has before. Fear rises in him. 

He thinks of Dream’s teeth; the bite. 

_Not allowed._

He slowly guides Dream’s tentative hands to his waist. “Did...did you like what you saw?”

_Prohibited. Dangerous._

A low breath escapes Dream. “Yes.”

George unlaces their hands, and travels up the warm muscle of Dream’s arms. Stiff, sturdy, wrapped in a thin button down that George knows is expensive to the touch. His fingers pass over his shoulders, and brush against the skin of his neck. 

_He saw my face. He_ saw _me._

He pulls Dream down. “Am I pretty?” he whispers. 

Dream carefully climbs onto the bed with him, sinking between his legs. “You know you are.” 

The long, black socks that cover the expanse of George’s thin calves slide against Dream’s lower back, as George hooks his knees around his waist. 

Dream hovers above him. 

“I…” George’s breath locks sharply as his body is engulfed by Dream’s warm frame. His arms cross behind Dream’s neck, impossibly close. “I need to hear you say it.” 

_Please_. The ceramic of Dream’s mask brushes the fabric on George’s shoulder. _Say it._

Dream’s fingers push up the loose sweater, and spread teasingly over George’s sides. “You _need_ to?”

George’s chest rises and falls. “It’s not fair,” he whispers. His palm curves over the top of Dream’s head, fingers pinching the tip of his mask. “You saw me before I saw you.”

“Rules,” Dream warns as his mask is slowly pulled, halfway up his face. Immediately his warm breath glides across George’s collarbone. 

“Right.” George’s hands stop sharply. He repeats in a shallow whisper, “Rules. M’sorry.”

The half-revealed stretch of his face brushes George’s skin, a hint of lips drawing a light moan from George’s mouth. Dream digs his grip into his sides.

George wants to feel his teeth, again. He wants to be tasted. 

“Want,” he pleads, in a barely audible voice. 

“Baby,” Dream breathes, tone low enough to match. His stubble grazes George’s neck.

“Tell me—” George begins to incline his jaw, asking for it one last time, “That I’m pretty.” 

Dream’s words are hot on his shoulder, “You are so fucking _beautiful_.” 

It happens before either of them can stop it; George’s head tilting to expose himself, Dream’s mouth dipping below the base of his mask, and planting a heavy kiss on the nape of his neck.

George’s instincts flare up immediately. “N-not supposed to—” His words disappear in a flurry of moans as Dream nips at the nerves on his neck. The tingling sensation skitters across his throat, and carries down his spine.

His body curves into it. 

“I know,” Dream hushes an apology against him.

His hand unzips the mesh of George’s mask, exposing his neck and jaw. He trails his warm lips up the ivory skin. 

“Make me stop.” Dream’s lips find George’s jaw. “Please. Say no and—” He moves dangerously close to George’s mouth, the contact burning his cheek. “I’ll _stop—_ ”

George turns to connect their lips, and kisses him. 

The taste is sweet. The taste is forbidden.

His hands clasp Dream’s jaw as he pulls his mouth in, lips parting to feel the soft tongue unopen him. He can’t help the mindless moans that Dream makes him share. He can’t speak.

He tugs Dream against him. Wet and wanting, they both drown in the overwhelming swath of new sensations.

“Fuck,” Dream growls, mouth diving to kiss him over and over again, “ _fuck_.” 

George’s hands grab at Dream’s clothes, tugging off his buttons and layers. His fingers are quick to yank on the metal buckle of his belt.

“Off,” he demands, untangling the leather from Dream’s loops.

“You’re—” Dream kisses him. “ _Cute_.”

George scoffs at the remark, but his nimble fingers are tugging down the zipper and allowing Dream’s restrained cock to spill into his hands with a gasp. 

Touch feels new every time they're together. 

He loves having Dream’s tongue explore his slackened mouth, as he takes his erection in palm. Dream’s hands rest on his throat, his hips press into his legs, his lips move on their own. It’s more than George has ever longed for. 

Dream tugs down George’s tight underwear. He engulfs their erections together in his palm, and George’s hand covers his knuckles pleadingly. 

“Y-you’re so—” _Big_ , he can’t say, because Dream is swiping over his tip and slowly moving against him. 

Reduced to breathlessness. Reduced to mindlessness. 

He tugs Dream towards his exposed asshole, and inclines his chin to recapture his lips.

“Mm—” Dream forces out between separating, trying to ignore the way George is guiding him towards his hole. “Need to—prep you—”

George tightens the legs he has wrapped around Dream, locking him in. “Don’t care.” He shoves a stray hand holding the condom and lube bottle into Dream’s grasp. 

Messily, their fingers work together to roll and slather the slick rubber down upon him.

Dream tries to combat George’s desperation. “But the rules—”

 _No advancement without proper preparation_. 

“Fuck the rules,” George says, pushing down against where Dream’s tip presses into his rim. “ _Fuck_ me.”

Dream doesn’t bother hesitating again before he’s pushing into George with a sharp groan. 

George’s body burns. The pain warps in him, and he can’t stop Dream’s name from falling off his tongue. 

Dream’s palms hook under his knees, stretching his legs back. “Is this what you wanted? Hm?” 

His cock expands George’s rim more than he’s had all day. The rushed, filling sensation parts George’s lips in a noiseless moan as he feels himself slipping away.

Dream drops one of his thighs to sharply grab George’s jaw. “ _Answer_ me when I’m talking to you.”

“Yes,” George spits quickly. The stubborn edge in him dies when Dream begins to move his hips. “Yes. Yes, yes, _yes_ …”

Every movement that wracks through him feels illegal, and thrilling _._ Frantic kisses are rushed between them as their faces press, cheek to cheek, jostling with every rut of Dream’s hips. 

Their masks bump and scrape together, stark in contrast to the pleasure that blooms from deep in George as Dream moves inside of him. Lost in the heat of his moans, George shakily pushes Dream’s fully off of his face.

Through the darkness of his goggles, he can’t even see what he’s revealed. But his fingers hungrily touch over his jaw, nose, and lips. He learns while blind; cries while fucked. 

Dream’s hands jerk him past the emotions, and closer to orgasm every step of the way. 

He feels Dream pull his goggles off of his face, and his eyes screw shut instinctively. The lack of pressure holding the clasps in place rushes him. 

“Look at me,” Dream pleads. His thumb swipes over the space between George’s brows. “Look, baby.” 

George’s eyes creak open in the dim room and meet Dream’s immediately. 

Vibrant. Green. Beautiful.

“Cum for me,” Dream says as George stares deep into his strong gaze. 

His body screams with alarms and restraint, feeling the closeness engulf him. 

“Now,” Dream orders. “ _Now._ ”

George’s body listens before he can hold himself back, stuttering into Dream’s hands as his ass is thrusted into repeatedly. Cum pumps over his cock as he cries out. 

Tears slip from George’s eyes. His body trembles as he rakes across Dream’s face, doe-like and drooly. His stomach tenses as he prepares for Dream to continue, to use him till he’s absolutely spent like he has before.

In an unexpected act of mercy, Dream pulls out. 

George leans up on his elbows as Dream tries to lift away, chasing after his mouth to meet him with a messy kiss. He slopes all over him with a need to express how grateful he is, how glowing and sensitive his body has become. 

His mouth travels on Dream’s lips, face, and down his neck. 

“So _sweet_ ,” Dream mumbles with low breath as George’s tongue connects with his collarbones. “So good for me.” 

George moves down his exposed chest, mind flooding with documents, requests, rules and papers as he pulls the condom off of Dream’s dick. 

He pulls the exposed tip into his wet mouth. 

Dream nearly gives out on top of him, his bulky thighs sinking against the bed in a breathless motion. His fingers fly to connect with George’s hair. 

George rarely does this for anyone.

He sucks him off devotedly, using his tongue and hollowing his cheeks in all the ways that make men crumble before him. It isn’t long until Dream’s cock is tensing in his mouth, and George sinks his lips down to let him cum deep in his throat. 

The groans that leave Dream are glorious. 

George gags as it spills in him. He relishes in the strain, and swallows dutifully before pulling the twitching length from his mouth. Gentle pets rake over his scalp. 

“Good boy,” Dream breathes, staring down at him wildly. His thumb swipes leftover cum off of George’s glistening mouth. 

“Kiss me,” George says, “and see what you taste like.” 

Dream’s hands cup his jaw. The touch brushes up to his cheekbones; gentle. “Don’t make me fuck you again.”

George smiles. He wishes he could see more of Dream’s face than the faint features he can make out in the dark, red light. 

Dream stays to help wipe him off, hands and cloths patient as George blushes. He’s too used to taking care of himself all on his own, so he can’t help but feel a strangely intimate flicker that Dream is sticking around for it. He helps Dream put on his clothes, zipping trousers, buttoning vests, poking fun at his multiple pieced suit that George is secretly attracted to. 

Dream compliments his sweater and knee-high socks. 

George hardly knows how to respond. 

“Please don’t go,” he says softly, gazing up at Dream as he finally slugs on his overcoat. 

“I can’t stay,” Dream responds, hands slowing where he adjusts his collar. “You know that.”

George extends the ceramic mask that had been discarded on the bed. “What is…”

Dream takes the mask. He leans down to close the gap between them, and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of George’s mouth. His eyelashes flutter on Dream’s cheek. 

_What is this?_

“I don’t know,” Dream murmurs. His nose nudges George’s cheekbone, before pulling back. 

George’s ankles slide away from Dream’s calves as he stays sitting on the edge of the cushioned platform. 

Dream hesitates before knocking on the door. “I have to go,” he says. 

George isn’t sure if the words are for him, or for Dream himself. He turns back as the bolts slide open from the outside, locking eyes at George in the dark light. 

His gaze begs the question. 

George digs his slender fingers into the red velvet beneath him. His lips part, and he answers, “George.” 

The vowels are wrapped in secrets and promises to never share it with anyone. 

“George,” Dream repeats. He sounds mesmerized. 

He tugs the mask on over his face, disappearing from George into anonymity again. His head swivels to glance back several times before finally leaving the room.

After the door glides shut, George lets out a strangled breath.

He digs his elbows into his thighs, and buries his burning face in his hands.

-

George takes several days of shifts off after that, rescheduling appointments and blaming it on feeling “under the weather.” In truth, he’s overwhelmed knowing that he’d broken so many of the rules he’d sworn to be protected by; rules he has upheld and cursed clients out for attempting to cross before. 

He knows something is different with Dream. He’s felt it ever since the tall man’s voice floated into his warm room, all those shifts ago. The want for money or mere completion isn’t there when Dream touches him. He’s yearning for _connection_ , a honeyed trap made of pleasure, sweet and addictive and terribly illegal.

He could get fired for it. Dream could get _worse_. 

He doesn’t want to go back to work and hide behind his goggles. He thinks, constantly, of how Dream’s cheekbones and mouth had curved under his light fingers. In his deep moping, he devours all the expensive food he’s stocked up after paychecks, and finds himself in need of a trip to the local grocery. 

American chips have been his favorite ever since he moved overseas in his late teenage years. One night last fall, he and Nihachu found loopholes in their contracts that allowed them to host guests at his apartment, where they brought an abundance of snacks, and a mean guacamole dip. He’s been biased ever since. 

So he finds himself wandering through the produce aisles, nose wrinkling at the poor selection of mushrooms, and eyeballing the fluorescent lights overhead. His basket is filled with mindless treats, hardly focused on what he’s doing as per usual, for late. 

He aimlessly walks down the chip aisle, ignoring the booze stacked on the shelf across the row. He can’t be tempted into buying more wine; knowing the night will end with him trying out the new toy that he still hasn’t opened, and wishing he could see Dream again. 

He balances his basket on his hip, and reaches up high to tug a blue bag of Doritos off the shelf.

“Clay, just _pick_ one,” an irritated voice says from several feet behind him. “Becca isn’t going to care.”

“I’m trying to be thoughtful,” another customer responds, and George’s fingers stall. 

“You’re trying to be _uppity_. Don’t be a snob,” the first man bites back. 

“Go get in line.” The voice that is unmistakably Dream’s grows closer, paired with bottles clinking on the shelf behind. “I’ll be there in a second.”

The plastic bag of corn chips slides out of George’s grasp, smacking loudly against the floor. 

_Shit._

“Oh. Excuse me, sir,” Dream says, and George turns to see him picking up the bag. “You dropped your—”

George stares at him. His eyes are wide. His body is frozen. 

Underneath the full light of the grocery store, Dream’s long features cast beautiful shadows down the slope of his nose and cheekbones. Freckles scatter across his skin. His hair is a dusty blonde, stark to the black suit and green vest that wrap around his large chest. 

“George,” Dream says with slow recognition.

They’re in public; not the dark room where George can fade away behind his goggles and cry out his name without any hint of shame.

Neither of them dare to make any sudden movements. 

“...Clay?” George replies with a prying tilt to the name he’d learned all of ten seconds ago. 

Dream’s face slackens the moment it leaves his pink lips. His eyes rake over George’s clothed body, making him feel more vulnerable and exposed than he does when bare-assed in the _404_ room. George wishes he’d worn something other than sweatpants and his expensive slides to the grocery store.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Dream murmurs. 

George swallows, and moves his basket to cover the inevitable problem growing between his thighs. 

Dream’s eyes follow the motion with a smirk, wrapped in amusement and arousal. He flicks back up to George’s doe-eyed gaze. They’ve never seen each other in such clear, full light, and _god_ is it overwhelming. 

“Um.” George’s hands tighten over the plastic basket’s handle. “H-how are you?”

“Not great,” Dream says immediately. He waits as another customer passes by them, then lowers his voice, “Can’t keep you off my mind.” 

George huffs in relief. “Me neither.”

Dream slowly hands him the bag of chips. Their fingers brush when George grabs it. 

“Did anyone find out that we…” 

_Broke the rules_ , George knows he’s trying to say. The weight of the phrase is nearly too much to consider. 

“No,” George breathes. “I didn’t say a word.”

He watches Dream’s pupils dilate. He reaches out to lightly settle his hand on George’s forearm. “Good boy.”

He’s struck with the recent memory of Dream swiping a thumb across his lower lip, cum in his mouth and ears ringing with the praise of ‘ _good boy_.’ 

George’s mouth parts with an impulsive breath. He feels himself swaying closer, drawn into the trance that Dream never seems to release him from. 

Dream’s eyes scrape candidly across George’s face, stalling at his lips.

They look like they’re ready to tear each other apart in the middle of the goddamn grocery aisle.

“This is a customer service request for Mr. Clay to come to the front of the store, please,” the overhead speaker crackles above them, making George jump. “Mr. Clay, come to the front of the store.” 

Dream swears immediately. “Nick—oh my god. My coworker is an idiot, I’m sorry.”

George finds it impossibly funny that Dream is _apologizing_ to him. A smile breaks out across his face.

Dream stares at the sudden change in his features, and smiles too. “So sorry. We have a party to go to, and are in kind of a rush—”

George shakes his head dismissively, effectively clearing it. “Oh, no worries. I’ll let you go.” He drops the chips bag into his basket. “Just forget you saw me.” 

He watches as Dream hesitates, pulling the champagne bottle in his other hand to rest against his wide palm. 

“Actually.” Dream glances down at his watch, then back up at George. “What are you doing at 6:30?”

George’s eyes widen. “What?”

Dream grins at him. “Are you working?”

“No.” George bites his lower lip. 

_The rules._

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks.

It’s not the first time George has been invited to a party by a pretty man in a prettier suit, requested as eye candy or arm candy or _bed_ candy, after a night of flaunting and flirting. He’d stopped taking them up on those offers, mostly because the commutes were shitty, and the booze wasn’t any better. 

George tilts his head. “Like an escort? I haven’t done that in a while—”

“No,” Dream says. “No, as my guest.”

Red heat flushes to George’s face immediately. It feels dirtier, somehow, the proposition of spending time with Dream _without_ getting paid rather than the opposite. 

He hesitates, glancing over the broad width of his shoulders; his cheekily domineering presence. His white teeth are curved into a friendly smile, one that melts in George every time his eyes pass over it.

“Your guest,” George repeats.

Dream nods sharply. “It’s a promotion thing for a friend. It’ll be small—I promise. Not that big of a deal.”

“Oh,” George says. He wants to wipe the stupid smile from his own face. “Um.” _You should say no._ _Say no. Say no._ “Okay.”

He tries to ignore how terribly this could end if anyone at work caught wind of it.

Dream’s eyebrows shoot up in happy approval. “Okay.” He shuffles to pull out his sleek phone from his trouser pockets. “Give me your number, then.”

George feels another pang rifle through his senses. Phones and devices of any kind are confiscated and stored away at the bordello, to prevent pictures, identification, or swapping of contacts just like this. 

He rattles off his cell number, heart hammering when Dream types in against his screen. 

“I’ll text you,” Dream says, backing down the aisle with a quick grin. “I promise.”

George watches him fondly. “You better.”

“I will,” Dream repeats. Before disappearing behind the aisle exit, he adds, “And George?”

“Hm?”

Dream sways the champagne bottle at him, glowing with a golden smile. “Dress nice.” 

-

George’s eyes narrow at Dream as the elevator doors part. “You said, ‘small thing. Not that big of a deal.’”

The floor opens before them with glitters of gold and hoards of people, dressed in nice suits and glamorous dresses with glasses in hand. Large banners and lights and decorations hang from the high buttresses. Over the crowd of fine waiters, the clothed tables and chairs, George can see the city’s skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

Artwork adorns large displays, spotlights on canvas frames that are smeared with color and nudity and _life_. The art is the only thing that doesn’t match the posh-fancy of the rest of the room, yet it seems to be the main event they’re here for. 

The name ' _Minx'_ spreads in glistening, purple letters on the ceiling. George knows that name. _Everyone_ knows that name.

George didn’t think he’d met Dream’s coworker ‘Becca’ before, whom he spoke of so highly on the ride up. He is mistaken. 

When Dream drags him over to say hello, Minx greets his welcoming smile, and then brightens impossibly when her eyes meet George.

“No way,” George says. Memories of Nihachu’s loud-mouthed friend who laughed at his jokes and drank all his rum flash by him in an instant.

A beautiful grin spreads across her face. “ _Georgie!_ ”

He’d also been drunk enough to give her his name.

Dream head swivels to watch them. “‘Georgie?’”

Minx throws her arms around him, the metal bands on her wrists rattling. “How the fuck are you, man? It’s been _forever_.”

He laughs into the pink fluff of her hair. “I’m great, Minx.” He pulls away, hands on her elbows. “Nihachu was just mentioning to me the other day that you’d won a huge art thing, or some shit. I didn’t know it was _this_.” 

She punches his shoulder, bashfully. “Oh come on, Mr.NotFound. Don’t make me _smooch_ ya.”

“Becca,” Dream cuts in. “How the hell do you know each other?”

She halts, dark-lined eyes passing over Dream suspiciously. “Depends, big guy. How do _you_ know each other?”

 _Fuck_. _Right_. George should’ve thought this through.

The rules swim around his head. Minx knows the higher-ups—hell, she _is_ the higher-ups—and one wrong word could lose him everything.

“He’s an old business partner of mine,” Dream lies swiftly. “Remember that four-day hangover I gave Karl after our layover in Heathrow?” He nods to George. “He helped us sort out the programming scramble.”

“I know you don’t know this about me,” George continues to Minx with ease, “but when I’m not working here in town, I do a lot of odd coding jobs for some of the execs I’m connected to.” 

That much is true. He feels Dream look at him in sharp surprise, but it passes.

“Well no shit,” Minx says, smiling with approval. “You just get more interesting every time I see you.”

He feels Dream nudge his arm, so he turns towards him. “She’s a friend of a friend from work,” he explains. “Had an...office party a little while ago. That’s how we met.”

Dream nods slowly. 

Minx offers another thinly-veiled lie about the different occasions she and George have interacted, careful to leave out anything that could link him to Faceless or give Dream details about George’s ‘secret’ job. She’s quickly tugged from their conversation as other antsy party-attendees wish to entertain the guest of the hour, and they’re left alone. 

“The last time I worked with a female client,” George muses as Dream hands him a slender glass of bubbling champagne, “Minx was there.” 

Dream lowers his wrist before the glass ever touches his lips. “What?”

George’s eyes snap up to his face. “Oh, sorry, I—” _didn’t realize what words were leaving my mouth._ “Didn’t mean to bring that up.” He laughs lightly. “Especially not here. I forget where I am, sometimes.” 

Dream smiles, his teeth sharp. “No, I don’t think I’m going to let you drop that and then _not_ elaborate.” He draws his glass to his mouth. “Tell me.” 

George curses his own loose lips, and takes a large swig of his drink. The carbonation slides down his throat. 

“It was a share-holders night,” he begins, “when the big-wigs come in town and the company ‘showcases’ their best means of business. Everyone, and I mean _everyone_ , gathers in the giant hall down on the sub-zero floor. And I…” He feels his cheeks tint pink. “I hardly have the words to describe what happens there.”

Dream hums with patience. “Try.”

“It’s like...a masquerade made of sins,” he finds his voice dropping softly, wading into the memories. “People are painted gold. There’s cushions on the floor, blankets everywhere, _skin_ everywhere. I get praised and touched and passed around, and—and…” He draws in a breath. “And it keeps going, for hours. Days, maybe. It’s hard to tell without any clocks or sunlight. My mind just...goes away.” His head tilts blankly, words lowering. “My mask becomes part of my face. The amount of hands and toys that touch my body...whenever I go home, I can’t speak for at least a day.” 

His eyes slip past Dream’s face, too wrapped in his dirty recollection to notice how he’s being stared at. 

He briefly breaches alertness again, sipping from his glass. “Minx attended the last one, half a year ago. I saw her, but I don’t remember if she…” He frowns, but clears his throat. “Anyway, several rounds of tequila in, I was with a group of female clients who liked this silly toy more than anything. They took turns using it on me while _using_ me, and messing with the switches cause _damn,_ did it vibrate—” He tugs on the tightness of his tie absently, neck warm. “But it was left there, for god knows how long. So long.” He laughs faintly between shallow breaths, repeating, “So long.”

He blinks himself back into reality, face flushing as he realizes the lewd details that spilled in his unintentional ramble. His hand stiffens around his champagne glass, and he spares a glance at his audience.

Dream’s jaw is wired tight, drink empty in his clenched fist. His attention is locked on George with crazed eyes. 

_Oh_. He swallows, and Dream’s gaze traces the bobbing in his throat. 

His story seems to have hit a nerve. 

“How often do those happen?” Dream asks, and _yeah_ , George hit a nerve alright. His voice is low and strained.

“Not often.” George takes a step back as a waiter approaches them to refill his glass, flashing a polite smile before the man leaves. Dream doesn’t bother. 

“But I’ve been invited to two,” George continues. 

“Do you realize,” Dream says slowly, “how excited you got when telling me that?” 

George feels the undeniable pull to lean forward, closer to Dream. “N-no, I—”

“ _There_ you are,” a heavy-handed man claps against Dream’s shoulder, pushing between the two. “Alyssa wanted some lime shooters, and was looking for doubles—”

“Nick,” Dream interrupts with irritation, “we were having a conversation.”

Nick turns to settle his eyes on George as though he hadn’t seen him till now. “Oh! My bad. Hi.”

Dream sighs. “After, maybe?”

“Oh, come on,” Nick says. “This guy can join us, too. What’s his name?”

“He can talk,” George bites. He places the strange familiarity of Nick’s voice from his eavesdropping at the store, hours earlier. “My name is George, pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand. 

Nick gives it a hearty shake. “Likewise.”

Dream regards Nick for a moment. “This is my guest,” he explains.

“ _This_ is your guest!” Nick repeats with an immediate raise in interest, giving George a broad smile. “Man, no wonder Clay’s so pissy. Well, George, I have to admit that I’m glad to see he has friends shorter than me.”

Dream slides a quick glance towards George, who smiles politely. It’s evident they won’t have a moment alone again for a while. 

“So,” Dream says, “about those shooters.” 

The night slides into bubbly celebration and drinks after George meets more of Dream’s high-fashioned coworkers at the bar. He finds himself laughing, and chatting, at times wondering if some of these rich folk seem familiar, or it’s just his brain making useless connections. He has to keep himself from raising a hand to visually cover half of their features, wondering if he’d know them masked.

He notices how Dream keeps a hand on George’s back, almost protectively, when introducing him to others as “my close friend George.”

George’s head trips over the ‘ _my my my.’_

They admire the art and dine on flavorful appetizers. They’re seated at a table with other dark suits, and spend more time leaning into each other’s company than conversing with the group. 

George asks questions about Dream’s job, their knees bumping under the white-clothed table. From what he gathers, Dream is one of the youngest executives in his corporation, and the boss of many people crowding the room. He speaks with a humbled confidence about his position, responsibilities, financial handlings and so forth. 

Everyone who is invited to Faceless has big money, George is always aware of that. It dumps heavily into his own pockets as well—but with the way Dream talks of his success, the wealth seems secondary.

“For me,” he says, “it’s always been less about the position I’m in, but more about what I can _do_ with it. One of the main tenets I try to pass on to my company is that power without heart is meaningless—and that’s how it will leave your aspirations, your impact, and your projects. Meaningless.” 

George feels his mind sharpening with clarity the more Dream speaks. He hates, also, that it’s an unexpected turn on.

When Dream flips the questions around on George, he feels lucky to have the complete attention of the most interesting man in the room. 

“You know my job,” George dismisses cheekily, resting a hand on the table. 

Dream drapes his warm palm over it. “Of course I do, George. But that’s your _job_. What about you?”

George smiles down at their linked hands, pulling them off of the public display on the table and letting their wrists rest against his leg. 

“This is how this is going to go, _Dream_ ,” he emphasizes coyly. “I tell you all about my little old self. You think it’s oh-so-interesting, until the next time I see you through my goggles, you can’t get it up.” He watches Dream’s brows raise sharply. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Hm.” Dream’s eyes gleam as he rubs a thumb in circles against George’s knee. “That _would_ be rather disappointing.”

George wants to stay a mystery, and Dream lets him. 

At some point Dream is pulled out onto the stage to make a toast, and handed a mic to preface Minx’s promotion speech. With half a negroni in hand, he tosses a dazzling smile over the crowd, and the party falls silent. 

“Ladies,” he says, “and gentlemen. Today marks the four-hundred and thirty-second day since I first met our wonderful artist, who we’re here to celebrate tonight.” 

He languidly trails the cord of his mic behind him as he takes several slow, confident steps forward. “But I’m not here to tell you about how sweet she was when she gave me her starting pitch, _or_ how sharp she was when I made her the first, and last, Manhattan she’ll ever drink.” Light chuckles rise through the crowd. “Instead, I want to share with you something she said to me not even five minutes before you all came in here to kiss her ass.”

George finds himself smiling as the audience laughs. He sees the sincerity with which Dream grins at Minx, seated at the table nearest to the stage. She reflects back a look of bright gratitude.

“The world knows Minx from her creations.” He turns to gaze at the tall canvas displayed behind him, and the eyes of the party follow. “The boldness of her choices. How she paints the world through colors, raw emotions, sex, and anger.” His shoulders sink slowly, as he returns to look at her. “But we know her as Becca.”

George’s heart tilts at the tenderness in his tone. 

“Someone who is patient, and loving, and kind,” Dream says. “Someone who had the audacity to look me in the eyes today and ask, ‘do you think I deserve this?’”

His words ring out in the metallic vibrations of his microphone. Silence settles over the room.

The world, it seems, zeroes in on Minx and Dream alone. 

“Why wouldn’t you deserve this?” he asks softly. “Who the fuck would _ever_ say that you don’t?” 

Minx places a hand over her heart. 

“Before you,” he says, “this place had no color. No drive. Hell, _I_ had hardly any of that—but after you, I’m overflowing with it.” His eyes suddenly flick to George from across the room. 

George’s breath catches in his throat. His face warms. His nails dig into his expensively blue slacks. 

Dream breaks away, voice growing firm as he continues, “I know for a _fact_ you’ve touched every goddamn heart in this room in the same way you’ve touched mine.” He pauses, and lets the audience roar in agreement. “And I know that this new chapter means you might be leaving us, sooner than I’d like. But I also know that the minute you outgrow this place, it would be absolutely immoral of me to try and make you stay.” 

George cannot stop staring at the lax set of his shoulders, his strong hand on the mic. The way he _shines_ when everyone’s eyes are on him. 

A force to be reckoned with. 

“So until then.” He raises his sloshing glass towards her. George follows suit as everyone else does the same. “I’d like to quote your favorite, twisted poet: Percy Shelley.” He clears his throat. “We have waited, weak and lone, for thy coming, Mighty ‘ _Minx_!’ Our purses are empty, our swords are cold—” His grin sharpens as Minx joins in with the last line, “give us glory, and blood, and gold.” 

He dips his head at the crowd, returning the mic to the stand as an uproar of applause and silverware clinking on glasses explodes through the hall. Minx rushes to meet him as he steps off of the platform, pulling him into a tight embrace. They pass words that no one else gets to hear, slapping backs and laughing heavily. George watches every second of it, amazed.

As Minx takes the stage to give her response, Dream makes his way back to his seat next to George. He politely smiles and shakes hands of people along the way, but eventually returns. 

He flops down in his chair, and chugs the rest of his drink.

“That was,” George says, staring at him, “a _wonderful_ speech.” 

Dream ducks his head, leaning to grab the wine bottle between them. 

“Did you prepare that?” he asks. 

“Not really,” Dream says absently, pouring the red liquid into his glass. “Other than the quote, cause I know she loves that thing to death.” 

George watches as the wine disappears down his throat, eyes trailing over the sharpness of his jaw and peak of his chest from the top of his blazer. 

They listen to Minx’s speech. George crosses his legs under the table, and prays that Dream doesn’t notice. 

About an hour and a half later, the party has descended past civility and into a drunken wildhouse that George enjoys thoroughly. People bump into tables and dance with Minx on the stage, booze diminishes, Dream keeps tugging George closer, and the night is young. 

Eventually, Dream snags a seat in a round booth hidden in the back of the hall. It’s tucked into the wall, separated by open curtains. The entire floor, George has learned, is exclusively for parties like this.

George is smiling when he sits on the red couch, and giggles when Dream pulls him into his lap. 

“There’s plenty of space,” he says, wriggling against the strong forearms pinned to his middle. “For me to sit on my _own_ —”

“There’s not,” Dream interrupts simply. His breath smells like the cigar he’d smoked on the balcony with Nick fifteen minutes ago, overlooking the glittering skyline of their sinful city. 

George tries to pry his arms away.

“There’s no use in fighting me,” Dream murmurs against the skin of his neck. “You know that.”

To his dismay, George’s body sags back against Dream’s chest, leaning into the contact. 

“You’re not as strong as you think,” he argues.

Dream hums. “Have you fucked someone stronger than me?”

George leans his head on Dream’s shoulder, considering the question. He tosses through his memories quickly. 

“I have,” he says.

Dream tsks in faux sorrow. “Was he any good?”

“Mm.” A smirk ghosts George’s lips in remembrance. “I came twice before he ever pulled out, so I’d say _yeah_ he was—” Dream’s hand falls to squeeze George’s thigh, cutting his words off sharply. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice low. “You’re playing a dangerous game putting those images in my head like that.”

“Really?” George questions innocently. “What if I told you about the time I had two clients at once—”

“Baby,” Dream breathes.

“—Since they paid _extra_. One behind me, the other holding my face and shoving his—”

Forceful lips connect with the corner of George’s jaw, kissing madly as he gasps. 

“Or—or—” he continues between breaths as Dream’s mouth moves down his neck. “When I—had to—sit on a toy for, _ah_ , three hours without t-touching myself—”

Dream _bites_. George holds back a moan, hand flying to tangle in his soft hair. 

“I don’t know how you do this to me,” his words nearly growl as he presses his nose close to George’s ear. “Thinking about you all—” His breath grows heavy. “Fucked and waiting, I can’t believe I…” 

“You what?” George pushes, shifting his hips in Dream’s lap. 

Dream kisses the sharp bone beneath George’s temple, and then murmurs low in his ear, “I can’t believe I didn’t get to do those things to you first.”

George’s eyes flutter shut. “Well, Dream, you...you’re one of the best I’ve ever had and I just _met_ you.”

He feels Dream smile against his neck at that. “Oh yeah?” His nose nudges George’s neck. “What’s the worst?”

George knew the question was coming. 

“There was a client I had,” he says, “a couple of months after I transferred to this job. He was...a bit too demanding.” It was the only time he’s ever had to use hidden safety buttons scattered in various nooks and crannies of the room. “I contacted security before anything went too far. Your friend helped me out, actually. I’m not sure what you call him, but to me he’s ‘Punz.’” 

“Oh,” Dream says with concern, the hand on George’s thigh lightly tracing in a soothing manner. “Shit. I...wish I knew what to say.”

“It’s really not a problem,” George explains candidly. “I took some time off until I was comfortable going back into work, and it was a long time ago. He’s been blacklisted since, so I have nothing to worry about.”

“That sounds terrifying.” 

George shrugs. “For a few seconds, maybe. I was lucky that I realized what was happening before it really went anywhere.” 

Dream rests his chin on George’s shoulder. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Ever.”

“I know,” George says. 

“You deserve so much more,” he mumbles against George’s suit. 

The closeness of their touch tonight has been so foreign, yet so familiar. George feels comforted by it even in the smallest of gestures. 

“So much more,” Dream repeats. 

George’s hand falls to cover where Dream’s is resting on his knee. Carefully, he tugs his palm up his thigh. “Like what?”

Dream’s fingers stir to life, gently kneading into his leg. “You deserve to be worshipped.”

He likes the sound of that. “Worshipped,” George echoes. 

Dream’s hand moves higher to play with the buttons on his blazer. “Every part of you.”

He unbuttons the jacket, freeing a layer of fabric from George’s hips. His fingers splay over his stomach. 

“Kissed,” he murmurs, palm spreading. “Touched.” He inches lower, and grazes his lips against George’s neck again. “Fucked until you know just how goddamn precious you are.”

“Dream,” George warns in an exhale, “this isn’t—that _room_.”

Dream whistles sharply to the security guard stationed outside with his back to the booth, and nods at him. The guard pulls the floor length drapes immediately, comforting them in the red room as noises from the party are muffled instantly.

George finds himself sighing, in relief and annoyance. “Why didn’t you do that when we first sat down?”

Dream ignores him. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone all night.” His thumb skims George’s waistband where his undershirt is tucked into neatly.

“Here?” George questions breathlessly, shifting against the pressing problem in Dream’s lap. “But your coworkers—”

“Oh, not for me.” Dream’s hands begin to palm George through his pants, slowly dragging down his fly. “Just for you, baby.”

His touch slips under George’s clothes, wrapping around his cock and pulling it into the warm air. George’s head leans back onto Dream’s shoulder as he’s stroked, long and steady.

“Dream,” he hushes. His hands find Dream’s thighs below him.

“Does it feel good?”

All George can do is nod as Dream continues. He glances down to watch his pink tip disappearing repeatedly in tan fingers and veined knuckles. The sight sends chills through his body.

He grinds hard against Dream’s lap. “G-god. I’ve been on edge all night just _looking_ at you—”

“Me too,” Dream coos breathily in his ear, pace ricing as George’s hips grow desperate. “You look so fucking good in this suit, you know. Wanted to tear you apart since I met you in the lobby.”

“Mm.” George’s back arches. “Bought it with—honey money.” 

The stupid, catchy name he’d explained to Dream that the Faceless’ workers love to call their tainted paychecks. 

Dream hums in approval. “Pretty boy,” he teases, “gets pretty things, for taking dick so well.”

George longs to complain, but it disappears into a sweet sound as Dream gently sweeps over and trails circles on his flushed tip. 

He shushes him gently. “You can’t be loud, here.” He deliberately follows by pumping several hard, fast strokes. 

George whimpers in response, teeth digging into his lip to strangle his cry. 

“That’s more like it,” Dream murmurs. 

He drags his lips down George’s neck, tongue swiping over the sensitive skin, beginning to suck lightly. His fist picks up the pace on George’s cock.

His other hand digs into his hip, tugging George’s back flush against his chest. “What are you?” he asks in a playful rasp. 

_A dirty little thing._

George’s head swims, warmth building inside of him. “Dirty,” he answers.

Dream chuckles into his neck with approval. “You’re precious. You’re perfect. You’re _mine._ ”

Whines and gasps fall from George’s mouth as his hips stutter. Engulfed in the large hands all over him, _Dream’s_ hands all over him, he grows impossibly close to spilling everywhere.

“Wanna—wanna—” He pants. “Th-the mess, can’t—” 

“Don’t wanna get messy all over your honey-suit?” Dream mocks, hand not slowing. 

George wants to break away from his touch to prevent it from happening, but Dream pins him with an arm across his middle. The muscles in his stomach and thighs strain as he tries to keep himself from tipping over the edge.

“Dream,” he pleads. 

“Then don’t do it,” Dream says, and George can _hear_ his grin. “Don’t cum. Don’t be dirty. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

“ _Clay._ ” 

He feels Dream’s body tense beneath him, hand stuttering for a brief moment. A hot breath blows across his neck.

Dream’s fingers unwrap from George’s cock. Simultaneous relief and displeasure course through him, jaded by his own requests. 

Swiftly, Dream leans to grab nearby cocktail napkins from the low table, and returns to touching George as if nothing happened. 

His movements are slow. “You still there, Georgie?”

George’s thighs begin to tremble as Dream’s hand rises back into a steady rhythm. “Right there,” he whispers.

Dream keeps pumping. “Make a mess,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

George’s hips rise into his fist.

“I’ve got you,” Dream repeats in a hush. 

George cums into the napkins in spurts as his body trembles, hands gripping Dream’s thighs. It washes over him in flashes of familiarity—the dark room, Dream’s voice, wordless praise—but this time, he feels impossibly close to the man behind him. He thinks he softly moans Dream’s name, but his ears are ringing by the time he comes back down.

Dazed, he sinks against Dream’s chest. Dream cleans the cum dribbling down his tip, and double-wraps the wad of tissues before setting it on an olive dish.

“Thank you,” George whispers. He’s surprised by the soft, obedient flush to his own voice.

Dream presses a tender kiss to his cheek. “Of course.”

He helps guide George’s weakened hips up when he murmurs that he wants to stand. George slowly readjusts his zipper and re-tucks in his shirt, body jittery in his afterglow. 

“God,” Dream says from where he’s seated in the booth, arms spread over the backrest, shirt unbuttoned just below his collarbones. “I could look at you forever.”

George tosses him a weighty glance. “You’re not supposed to.”

Dream laughs, the breathy wheeze emanating from his chest with warmth. George loves that he can see the way it folds across his face, crinkling his eyes and curling his lips. He’s decided tonight that he very well might have a _thing_ for mask-less Dream.

“We should get back to the party,” Dream says finally, once George has recovered. 

George glances down at the bulge in Dream’s lap. “What about _that?_ ”

Dream grabs his neglected glass of whiskey off of the table. “It’ll die soon. Don’t worry about me.”

George watches, with unguarded attraction, as Dream chugs the auburn booze as if his mouth is made for fire. 

When Dream smiles at him, he returns it. He knows he is completely and utterly addicted to this wild, lion-souled man. 

-

George can hardly believe the entirety of the party happened once he’s home. It's difficult for him to think of anything besides the way Dream laughed, the way he spoke, the way his hands felt teasing on George’s skin. 

He hardly wants to clock in for work. When he does, he can’t keep his mind from wandering back to the dark place he’s become so familiar with. In some ways, it makes it easier to fantasize about Dream when he’s not there while someone else’s hands are on his body. In other ways, it’s overwhelmingly difficult—like when he almost moans out the wrong name. Twice.

He’s been anxious as hell, too. He and Dream haven’t heard from each other since Minx’s celebration. The gnawing feeling that something could slip, something could change, and the Faceless institution could narrow down on their violation of almost _every_ rule is extremely tangible. It’s kept George from sending any texts, despite the lonely nights that he has desperately wanted to. Not only had he violated the policies within the building, he’d told Dream his name, met him outside of work, and kissed him _again_ in the valet lot. 

He’d been tipsy and bubbly and Dream offered to have his ‘personal driver’ give George a lift home. George had refused, Dream wrapped his arms around his waist, and dipped his back as he leaned down to kiss him. 

George’s hands clung to the fabric of Dream’s jacket. His lips begged and nipped for more, and more, and more. 

When Dream broke away as his car pulled up, George felt weak enough to collapse on the sidewalk and never breathe again. 

He sat in the backseat on the ride home. Dream assured he’d make a valet deliver George’s car to his house the next day. Red and green lights danced over the windshield as the warm windows unrolled, dark in the night. 

George’s phone buzzed. He pulled the bright screen and squinted at it. 

Underneath a prior message from the unsaved number he knew to be Dream from sharing the party’s address hours earlier, a new text appears. 

_I would’ve sat with you,_ Dream texted from the front seat, _but I don’t think I could’ve stopped myself from eating you alive._

George smiled down at the message. _Bless your heart_ , he responded. 

He got dropped off. Dream tossed him a gentle goodbye. 

They haven’t texted since. 

George works, and wonders, and waits. He can’t be the one to do it—it’d be an admission that he wants something leaps and bounds beyond what he’s _allowed_ to want. 

After an interesting work day of a regular client changing forms, and George learning that people besides Dream still _can_ surprise him, he feels spent. He showers and then rubs a towel at the dampness of his hair until it's frayed, and fuzzy. He sinks into comfy clothes after hours of chafing lace. The white fluff of his bed welcomes him as he disappears into it with a hearty flop.

Just when he feels his guard has finally lowered in the warm, safe blankets, his phone rattles noisily against his wooden side-table. He jumps at the sound. 

He slings his arm haphazardly, and pulls the cold device in his palm. 

The number he still hasn’t saved in his contacts texted him, for the first time in days. 

_Pretty boy,_ it says, _how are you?_

He sits up immediately.

So Dream became impatient enough to cross the line. George makes him desperate enough to crawl back, when they both know he shouldn’t. The idea skyrockets the rate of George’s fluttering heart. 

His thumbs hover over the keys. 

_Sore_ , he types back.

Immediately, Dream’s dotted bubble reappears. 

_:( Rough day?_

George smiles wryly. He sends, _Not rough enough_. 

He pulls the covers bunched around his waist up towards his chest. Adjusting pillows behind his back, he leans against his headboard. 

_Bummer._ Dream then quickly adds, _Bet I could change that._

George draws his lower lip into his mouth, biting gently. _Pretty please?_

He wishes he could see Dream’s face when the man responds: _You’re tempting_. 

George smiles. He can feel the warmth of Dream’s words seeping into his boldness. Opening the camera on his phone, he thinks, _Oh, I’ll be tempting, all right._

He tips the frame towards his pale neck, littered with light bruising from his appointments hours ago. He snaps a photo.

 _Last client was handsy_ , he says. _Made me miss you._

He feels nerves flutter in his stomach as a light whoosh signifies the image went through. 

_Fuck_ , Dream texts, and George’s stomach flips. A moment later, he asks, _Is your throat okay?_

 _It’s fine_ , _happens from time to time._ George brushes fingers over his sensitive neck; purpled, but not damaged. _I just bruise easy._

There is a long pause where Dream doesn’t text back. George idly continues to rub his neck, mindlessly wandering into the pleasant memory of his client’s hands on him. His index finger runs down the front of his throat, rising over the bump and soft pipes there. What would Dream’s hands feel like, holding him?

He blushes. 

_I didn’t know you liked that_ , Dream says finally. 

George hums. _There’s a lot you don’t know about me._

His phone buzzes again in his palm. It reads: _What a sweet little mystery you are._

He tilts his screen against his chest, letting it rest on his crewneck. His eyes scrape his white ceiling before dipping back down to respond: _Do you want to figure me out?_

He thinks of the way Dream gazed upon him, when stories and small details of his life before they met slipped from his mouth at the party. 

_More than you know_ , Dream texts. 

George’s breath catches. He extends his wrist against the comforter, and captures the faint, red bruises pressed into the bone there, too. 

He sends the image. He feels a flicker of satisfaction—he’s always wanted to show off his battered body to someone after his rougher sessions. 

_Jesus. How often do you get marked up like that?_ Dream asks.

 _I only let clients do it every once in a while,_ George says. As Dream begins to type back, he swiftly adds on a tentative message. _You’ve left some before, though._

Dream’s bubble disappears immediately. After a second, it returns. _I have?_

The muscles in George’s abdomen tighten. 

_Yes,_ he responds. _When you spanked me._

His lungs shallow at the memory; Dream’s warm hands eliciting pain from his skin with sharp smacks that made him see white. 

_They were light,_ George explains, _but still there._

Dream’s text comes quickly. _I would have loved to see that._

George’s hands long to float down, and disappear under the covers. _Leave more, next time._ His hips shift nervously. _I miss those hands._

 _Oh, do you now._ Dream pushes. _How bad?_

He knows Dream is expecting some whiny remark of desperation, an _‘oh so badly_ ’ or another gratuitous addition to his ego. George dares to not give him what he wants. 

Slowly, as if to not scare himself away, George lifts the blankets and exposes the shorts he’s wearing. The black fabric is stark against the pooling white comforter. His eyes dance over the tantalizing hint of skin and curves in the bunched up shorts. 

He takes a photo that he knows Dream will love. He captions it: _You tell me._

A minute passes, and then another. George is grinning. 

_George._ Dream’s response is sharp, and his bubble blinks in and out of existence repeatedly. 

In the picture, George had hooked a thumb to the small waistband of his shorts, and pulled just enough to flaunt the sharp angle of his hip bone. Pale skin disappeared in dark cloth, his thighs half-covered by the white blankets, and the hardness straining against the material in clear view.

He’s surprised by the eroticism of being in control of what Dream can look at, for once. Everything in their dark _404_ tells him: _Touch, and not see_. In the pale white of his sprawling bedroom, he’s whispering back: _See, and not touch_.

His victory is short lived.

Another image pops into their message thread, and George’s tongue runs dry.

Dream sent a photo of his hand. His knuckles and fingers curve beautifully in soft lamp light. The mahogany desk hinted at the edge of the photo contrasts them nicely. 

But he’s wrapped himself over the large hard-on in his dark slacks, pressing against the inseam, nearly threatening in his transfixing grip. The combination of his hands and his dick makes George’s mouth water. 

His eyes grow heavy from staring at it. 

Eventually, he types, _Thanks. Now I can’t stop drooling._

 _Then show me your mouth,_ Dream responds playfully, but George is in deep. 

He swipes a tongue over the pink of his lips, letting them shine as he flips the camera to the front-facing view. He raises a slender hand to rest on his jaw. His fingertips lightly pull his flush mouth apart, just enough to curl the glistening saliva in the way he wants.

His eyes run over it. His mouth looks _hot_. 

He sends it. 

Dream’s immediate words descend across George’s screen. _You’re killing me, Georgie._

The prideful smile on George’s face is quickly wiped away when Dream texts again. It’s an order.

 _Put your fingers in._ _I want to see it._

A soft breath escapes him. He doesn’t hesitate before opening his camera again, but hovers over the red video button instead of a quick photo. 

He hits _record._

He lifts his hand to his jaw, and sinks his pale fingers down his tongue. His lips purse around the knuckles, just as they had when wrapped around Dream all those days ago. He imagines the taste of his cum as he draws his hand out, agonizingly slow. Spit trails and drags on his fingertips. 

The blush on his barely visible cheeks is evident. It grows warmer when he presses send.

He can nearly _feel_ the way that Dream stares at the clip through his phone. 

_Fuck._ After a moment, Dream types again: _Fuck. I miss that mouth so bad._

 _I miss yours_ , George replies, because he _does_. He’s been thinking constantly about how it felt to kiss Dream in that dark room, and under the moonlight on the valet curbside. The danger that courses through him when he feels Dream’s lips. How badly his body is yearning for that again.

 _I miss your little sounds_ , Dream says. 

George lets his hand float down under the blankets, to brush across his cozied erection. A gentle hum slips past his lips at the light stimulation. 

One-handed, he types, _I miss your voice._ Then, he dares to push farther. _What are you doing right now?_

 _In the office_. _You’re giving me trouble_.

George’s heart races. He thinks of Dream with his broad shoulders against his even broader chair, hard under the desk, clenching his jaw at his phone. His dirty little secret whispering to him of all the things he wants, and needs.

George quickly types, _Let me give you more trouble, then._

He taps on the call button, and brings his trembling hand towards his ear. The line rings, and rings, before sharply clicking as Dream picks up. 

“I,” Dream says warmly, “am at work.” 

George’s eyes flutter at the sound of his voice. His palm squeezes over his stiff boxers. 

“I,” George echoes breathily, “do not care.” 

“You’re quite the distraction, you know.”

A selfish stroke of pride flickers through him. “You’re the one wh-who texted me first.” 

“I had to. You were on my mind.” Dream pauses, listening to George breathe, before his voice drops low. “Have you...been touching yourself, baby?”

George’s toes curl into the bed, face flushing. He palms from the outside of his clothes, teasing his waistband with the back of his thumb.

“You got me all excited,” he confesses.

Dream’s voice is tight. “Yes or no, George.”

His fingers tug down his underwear, gasping as the fabric brushes over him. “Y-yes.”

Dream exhales shortly. “Good.” With amorous wonder, he pries, “After a whole day of being used, you still want more?”

Work had hardly been enough.

“Want _you_ ,” George mumbles, fingers tightening on his phone as he wraps a hand around himself. His cock is sensitive and dripping already. 

A low growl passes through the phone. “Such a slut.”

George whines softly, ears burning at the name. He begins to move his fist with agonizing need.

“You sound so worked up already,” Dream says breathily. “God. _Listen_ to yourself.”

“I can’t help it.” His hips curve into his sinful touch, wishing Dream was here to see it. To hold George in his arms, and murmur words of encouragement in his ear. 

He finds himself moaning softly at the fantasy. “Y-your _voice_ —” Syllables are coaxed away from his mouth. 

Dream’s warm words fall to an intentional rumble. “What about my voice?”

_I love your voice. I need your voice._

“Makes me wanna cum,” George whispers, “so bad.” 

The desperation rings clear and true through the air. If only he could have control over his body again, and not flush at the memories of Dream pounding him into the bed, to feel like he can get off _without_ the thought of his hands or his touch. 

But he doesn’t want that. He wants _Dream_. 

“Didn’t you cum enough already today?” Dream bites sharply. “What makes you think you deserve more?” 

George’s hand moves faster, pleasure curling into him that he’s been chasing since early morning. “I couldn’t at work—” He forces himself to stammer through his gasps, “N-not as good as you.”

“George.” His body arches at the assertive disbelief in Dream’s voice. “You didn’t cum at all today?”

With all the grabbing, thrusting, moaning he endured—none of it was enough. “No,” George confesses. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dream swears. “Even after all those pretty marks on your skin...”

George’s head tilts up as his shoulder blades press into the backboard and pillows. “You,” he manages to say, “needed y- _you_.”

A low sound escapes Dream’s mouth. “So fucking desperate, jesus _christ_. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Please,” George is begging before his mind can tell him not to, “come here.”

“George.”

“Dream,” he moans, hands shuffling under the covers. “Pl- _please_.”

“I want to, so fucking bad. Oh my god,” Dream rushes with audible strain. “But I’m working, and the fact that I even have time to talk to you right now is—”

George’s eyes loll. “I’d be so good for you.”

“ _Baby_.”

“I wanna—wanna cum for you,” he pleads, heavy breath tangling with Dream's over the phone line. “For you. For you. For you.”

“Jesus fucking _christ_ ,” Dream groans. He sounds like he’s dying to touch himself; to touch George. “What about after I get off work?”

George gasps immediately at the thought. “Please? _Please?”_

“Are you sure—” he tries, but George’s babbling is overpowering. 

“Yes, _yes_ —please, please, please—” His vowels draw out into a high, filthy noise. 

“You sound like you’re close, baby.” Dream is breathless. “Yeah? You wanna cum for me?”

Nothing but a whine leaves George’s lips. 

“I want to see it,” he orders. “Show me what I do to you.” George forces out a noise of agreement. “I want to see you _ruined_.”

Built up from a day of being edged and fucked, George’s orgasm tears through him with force. It’s made of aching muscles and golden webs of pleasure; moaning in Dream’s ear, body trembling. The load is impossibly messy, and his cock twitches as it keeps pulsing out of him. 

“S-so much.” He leaks all over himself with heavy pants. “So much.”

“Good boy,” Dream soothes in his ear, “very good. Take a picture.”

George’s tired hand manages to take a photo of the mess on his cock, dripping down his flushed skin and splattered on his underwear. He sends it to Dream before pulling his phone back to his face. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Dream breathes once he’s gazing upon it. George’s eyes flutter heavily at the praise. “Look at you.”

George hums sleepily in response, exhausted and lulled by the warmth drying on his skin. He could sink into the bliss that is the afterglow and Dream’s voice. 

Amused, Dream asks, “You tired?”

“Mhm.” George sighs into the pillows. 

He hears Dream laugh, lightly. “You gonna pass out on me?”

A smile ghosts his lips. “Maybe.”

“I’ll let you sleep, sweetheart,” Dream says, suddenly fond. “You’ve had quite the day.”

George’s brows furrow as his eyes begin to slide shut. “Come over,” he repeats. His world tilts into sluggish slowness as the thought of sleep becomes more and more comforting.

Dream’s tone is disbelieving. “You still want me to?”

“Yes,” George says through a yawn. He blinks blearily at the tissues on his nightstand. 

“I don’t know, George,” Dream dismisses. “Maybe some other day.”

“Why.”

“You’re half asleep,” Dream points out, and the softness in his voice only weakens George’s consciousness even more. 

He wants to protest, but the drowsiness in his limbs and mind keep him from giving a proper fight. He stumbles out a goodbye when Dream sing-songs that he’s going to hang up. With the last ounce of his strength, George focuses on cleaning himself up. He wipes his body down and discards his boxers onto the floor. 

After crawling back into the warm blankets and sheets he sends Dream a text with fleeting consciousness.

He attached a description of his street name and apartment number with a simple, one worded request: _Please_. 

His eyes slip over their digital conversation one more time, before he promptly falls into deep slumber.

-

He wakes up when night has scarcely arrived, and post-sunset grogginess is washing into his room. He lifts his heavy head from the pillows, mouth dry. He blinks slowly. 

He tugs on a pair of clean shorts, washes his face, and grumbles at the absurdly low temperature on the thermostat. He layers in red socks that match his oversized hoodie in combat of the cold.

Not wanting to cook the fancy meat sitting in his fridge next to several unopened yogurt cups, he pulls up the menu for a local Chinese restaurant. He selects a greedy amount of food from his living room couch while yawning through most of the order. 

He places his forearm over his eyes, and drifts accidentally into sleep again. 

This time, he’s woken against his will by the buzzing sound of the intercom flooding his apartment. Someone is at the door, several stories below. 

A sigh leaves his lips. He doesn’t _want_ to move, but the idea of shoveling a steaming box of noodles and beef into his mouth causes his stomach to steepen. He’s _hungry_. He often forgets to eat, since his hours at the bordello are long and he has to work around the discomfort of sex on a full stomach. 

He lazily stumbles to press the button on the intercom, unlocking the door below to the apartment complex. There’s no way he’s going down those stairs; the delivery man can come to him. He’ll give him a hearty tip for the trouble. 

His reflection flashes by him when he passes a mirror in the hall, and he glances over his bruised neck. 

_Should probably cover that, anyway_ , he muses, grabbing a scarf he’d tossed on the table, and wrapping it around the marks. Minutes later, he hears a knock from the hall. 

He frowns. Whoever climbed to the top floor did it _fast_. The size of the tip doubles in his mind.

He quickly grabs his wallet, and unlocks the dark oak to swing the door open. The brass is cool in his palm.

His eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says. 

Dream glances down at the credit card suspended in George’s hands. “You don’t have to pay me,” he greets smoothly. “I delivered myself.” 

George stares at the soft t-shirt hanging from Dream’s shoulders, the casual jeans hugging his thighs. He looms in the hall with a dopey smile, one hand behind his back, the other holding what seems to be a sweatshirt that isn’t covering his biceps, despite it being below freezing outside. 

“I thought you were my Chinese food,” George manages to say. 

He’s never seen Dream in anything but a _suit_. His heart begins to pound, unsure how a man with that much wealth can look so comfortable in shoes probably bought from a store that also sells groceries.

“Ah, sorry to disappoint.” Dream draws his hand out from its hiding place, and presents a dark bottle that glistens red in the dim hall light. “Maybe this will pair well, when it does get here.”

George smiles at the gift before he can stop himself. “What are you doing here?”

“You sent me your address,” Dream says hesitantly, and George’s chest aches. 

_Why does he look so fucking soft, right now?_

He tilts his head at Dream. “Why would I ever do that?”

The grin that lifts across Dream’s features is dazzling, and warm. “Cause you can’t get enough of me.”

George crosses his arms. He watches as Dream’s eyes slip away from his face for the first time in their conversation, dipping down over his scarf and hoodie, the exposed whites of his thighs and his covered toes. He likes the way it feels to have Dream study him. He wonders if Dream is intrigued, too, to see him in something other than lingerie.

“That could be why,” George says, but doesn’t budge from the doorway. “What if I told you I changed my mind?”

Dream reaches a friendly hand to touch George’s jaw. His thumb brushes gently on the space below his cheekbone, and leaves a pink trail of blush.

“Then I’d kiss you to prove you wrong,” Dream says. 

He pulls his hand away.

George steps aside to let Dream in. It’s been months since he’s had company over, and the minute Dream’s shoulders pass through the threshold, George wants to passively check if the floors needed an extra sweeping. 

He shuts the door behind them. The light from the hall is cut off, and the warm bulb hanging several feet away provides little for them to see each other. 

In the half-darkness, George gazes up at Dream. 

Dream, who is here in his apartment, on a Thursday night after he’d jacked off to the sound of his voice hours before. 

“Hi,” George says. 

Dream slowly hands him the wine bottle, his knuckles brushing George’s fingers. “Hi.” He glances around, at the wooden walls and high ceilings above them. “This place seems nice.”

George’s heart thumps against his ribs. “I know.” His attention flits over Dream’s features, still learning. Still wanting. 

Dream meets his eye. “You’re staring,” he murmurs.

He leans closer, raising his hand to connect fingertips to Dream’s gray chest. “I know.” The material is warm under his touch. He can feel his body shift as he breathes.

Dream’s hand lifts to meet George’s elbow, then ghosts up the red fabric on his forearm. “It’s good to see you.”

George’s fingers sprawl flat on his sternum. He smiles, coy. “I thought you didn’t want to?”

“Hey, I _wanted_ to,” Dream defends, taking the bait. His hand grasps George’s as it floats away from his chest. “I just wasn’t sure if you were in the mood for a visit.” 

Their hands link together between them in the cozy room. 

“What changed your mind?” 

Dream squeezes his fingers. “You wouldn’t have asked,” he says, “if you didn’t mean it.” 

“Very good,” George praises playfully. A narrowed glare momentarily comes across Dream’s face, causing George to smile, and back down. “Thank you for the wine. You didn’t have to.”

He removes his hand from Dream’s, and turns to walk further into his apartment. 

Dream trails behind him. “Can’t show up to a pretty boy’s place empty handed,” he says.

George grins. They stop by the mat of shoes at the end of the foyer. 

“Hope you’re not tracking in any snow,” he says, eyes slipping down the hall for marks of slush. 

Dream kicks off his shoes and leaves them by the entrance. “Don’t worry. It all melted during your little catnap.”

George hums lightly. “Catnap,” he repeats with amusement. 

“What’s so funny?” 

He shakes his head. “Nothing, just sounds like the name of a client I met during a share-holders night.” 

“Ah,” Dream says gravely, “the share-holders night.” 

George tosses him a look as he leads Dream down the hall, and towards his kitchen. “What, you been thinkin’ about that one too hard?”

“Too hard,” Dream muses, setting his jacket on the counter as he watches George search for the wine opener, “is just the right word.” 

George’s hands stall on the dark countertop, knuckles pressed into the marble as the wine opener curls in his palm. He bites the smile from his lip, and turns to look at Dream. 

He’s standing by the island, leaning forward on his elbows patiently, hands clasped before him. His height is fitting with the tall ceilings that George is always envious of. The way his voice carries through the room makes it sound like he’s been here before; like he’s supposed to be. 

“You look good in my apartment,” George tells him. 

“Thank you.”

He turns back to the wine bottle to not get lost in Dream’s warm grin. 

“Where are your glasses?” Dream asks, lightly stepping around the countertops to gaze at George’s dark cabinets. 

“You have a talent for finding things out,” George answers vaguely, “where do _you_ think they are?”

He hears Dream hum, seemingly pleased with the sweet game they’re dancing with. “For someone who is small,” Dream begins to wonder out loud, and the dramatism is not lost on George. “You take up a lot of space. You probably keep your spices near the stove, to have your quick little seasonings on hand—” The drawer of rattling, expensive spices glides open behind George. “And your silverware across from the sink. Tidy and practical.” He feels Dream draw closer as he chooses yet another correct location.

George twists the metal corkscrew down into the wine bottle. His lips are pressed into a warm smile that he doesn’t want Dream to see.

“Plates would be up high, but not _too_ out of reach.” Dream’s voice wanders, a cabinet creaking open. “Because you like to keep yourself separated. Sharp. Clean. So, the food would stay away from the wine.” 

George feels him cross the kitchen, and creep up behind him. The warmth slowly radiates onto his back. Dream’s chest looms over his shoulders, and his arms reach up to curl around George’s small frame to open the compartment above his head. 

George pulls the cork from the bottle with a small _pop._

Dream presses up behind him, and hangs his head next to his ear with an audible smile. “I think I found them.”

George glances up at the open cabinet of wine glasses. He leans back into Dream’s body as two large cups are carefully extracted from the shelf.

“You just knew where the glasses were because I’m opening the bottle beneath them,” George mumbles.

Dream takes a step back to give George the space to turn around. He extends the glasses in his large palms towards the bottle. 

“Perhaps,” Dream says as George pours the red liquid into his hold on the delicate glass. “But I wasn’t wrong, was I?” 

George sets the bottle against the counter, and takes the glass Dream hands him. As he leans back against the marble edge, their ankles nudge together. 

“You do know how to read me,” he murmurs. He lifts the cup towards his nose to catch a subtle whiff, and his eyes flick up to Dream.

The wine smells red, and dark with a hint of something fruity. A tang. An arousing blend of anticipated flavor, with a balmy suggestion that it’ll leave him wanting more on his tongue. 

“I drink this wine,” Dream says, “whenever I think of you.”

George tips his cup forward, and they clink theirs together with a light ring of glass on glass. “You must be drinking it a lot.”

Dream smiles at him as they both take a sip. 

It even tastes like the dark room, their whispered secrets and velvet touches. He understands why Dream watches him so closely as he lets it glide over his tongue, and swallows slowly. 

“It tastes like us,” George says. 

Dream hums warmly in approval, and swipes his tongue over the light sheen of red left on his lip. George can’t help but observe every small movement of his mouth. 

His eyes flick back up to Dream’s captivating eyes. “So.” He leans off of the counter, cupping the glass in his slender fingers. “Would you like a tour?”

They float around the kitchen and down the halls of George’s apartment, sipping on wine, explaining the art hanging on his walls that Minx called ‘sensual’ upon first glance. It’s a beautiful place with a view of the city, removed from the world and coated in sleek edges, white ceilings, hardwood floors. George takes pride in it; it’s nice to share it with someone new.

The takeout food arrives and Dream is quick to get the door, paying for the meal before George can argue against it. They sit and eat at the dining table that George hasn’t used in months. 

Dream pokes fun at the small noises of satisfaction that unintentionally slip from George’s mouth as he sinks his teeth into well-seasoned beef. 

“It does amaze me,” Dream says through chews of warm noodles. “How excited you are by the world around you.”

George’s eyebrows raise. He swallows his mouthful. “What do you mean by that?”

“Everything, from eating food to when I say your name, seems to give you a positive reaction,” Dream explains. “Most of the people I meet are incredibly unenthusiastic.”

George bobs his head thoughtfully, wiping his face with a napkin. “I can understand why that might come as a surprise. I generally am very aware of my senses, if that helps at all. I think all the time I spend at work has only heightened that.” 

“Really?” Dream meets his eyes with bright interest. Throughout their time together so far, he’s been attentive and patient with everything that falls from George’s lips. 

He nods, and reclines in his seat. “When I’m in there for long enough, things like time and light don’t really matter anymore. My body gets used to the deprivation and instead relies on physical ways to understand my surroundings.” He smiles dazedly. “I swear I can smell better, and hear more, and _feel_ more after working endless shifts like earlier today.”

Dream pushes a box of potstickers towards him. “Jesus. No wonder you’re cumming in your pants over this food.”

George rolls his eyes. “Right.” He pulls portions onto his plate with chopsticks. “What about you? How was your workday?”

Dream tangles his socks with George’s under the table. “It was busy. Useless meetings and dealing with contracts.” He locks eyes with George, and smiles. “Boring after you fell asleep.”

A pink blush rises on George’s cheeks. The coldness he’d been swarmed by since he woke up is suddenly gone, and his body grows warm. 

“You wore me out,” he says dismissively, eyes falling to the table as he fusses with the overheating sleeves of his hoodie.

_I want to see you ruined._

“I think you wore yourself out,” Dream counters, and George feels his face burn even more at the playful baritone to his voice.

He idly unwraps his scarf and feels a wave of relief at the cool air washing over his skin. “You were at fault just as much as I was.”

When he doesn’t hear a chuckle or any hint of a response, he looks up.

Dream is _staring_.

His fork is held mid-raise, chunks of egg and noodles still hanging from the metal prongs as he’s frozen to his seat. His eyes are glued wildly to the area below George’s face. 

“Dream?” George questions timidly, watching as he slowly lowers his utensil. 

“Your,” Dream breathes, and the low tone immediately elicits a reaction from George’s body, “ _neck_.”

“My— _oh_.” 

George had nearly forgotten about the bruises. 

“They’re darker in person,” Dream hushes madly. He’s leaning forward across the table, closer to George, as if he isn’t aware of his own movements. “They’re bigger in person.”

George raises a hand to trace over them self-consciously. “Yeah, I know. I’m hoping they go away soon.” His fingers get lost in the light remembrance, and he drags his nails across the marks absently. 

A shaky exhale leaves Dream’s mouth. George’s attention snaps back to his face quickly. 

“George,” Dream says, gaze lifting to look deep into his eyes. George’s lips part helplessly. “Can I...touch you?”

The question is tentative. Yearning. Raw.

“Please,” George breathes. 

He blinks, and Dream is around the table and pulling open a chair to sit right next to him. He sinks into it, locked on George and the way his breath is shallowing, and how he squirms under the spotlight. 

George turns to fully face him. Their knees and thighs bump together as Dream scoots closer. His eyes watch every movement of Dream’s hand as he reaches up, crossing the space between them, and connects his fingertips to George’s skin. 

An electric breath escapes Dream’s mouth at the same time that George’s lungs lock sharply. His green eyes are stuck on the pulse of George’s neck as he trails his touch, lightly, over the bruises. 

It triggers flashes of the masked client squeezing him, how his breath left his body in a dizzy glow. The firm grip is contrasted by the gentle brush of Dream’s fingertips over the sensitive skin. 

George inclines his jaw, undone by the spell. Dream’s eyes grow lidded. 

“Here,” George somehow murmurs, as he reaches for Dream’s wrist. He pulls his hand forward.

“Sweetheart,” Dream says through a winded exhale. It sounds pained, wrought with self-control. George sinks his palm against his throat, forcing Dream’s hand to wrap around his neck. 

Dream’s eyes flutter shut. His grip is open; it rests there. It lays there. It doesn’t squeeze, or grow harsh, it only covers the warmth of George’s bruises and softly threatens his windpipes. 

George is breathing heavily. He can’t speak. He can’t think. He feels reduced to a simmering charge of energy with Dream’s touch placed on him, and he cannot stop _wanting_. 

“Kiss me,” he rasps, and Dream’s eyes fly open. 

His gaze is dark and pupils blown. Carefully, he leans in. The inches of warm air deplete between them as his mouth hovers, and waits, until finally connecting with George’s lips. 

It’s the softest he’s ever been kissed. 

Dream’s lips are hot and move slowly against him, tasting like wine and fried vegetables and lust. His short breaths when they pull apart, just to kiss again, strike fire low in George’s stomach. 

His grip never tightens on George’s neck. George’s hands fall to cling onto his forearm, in an unspoken plea, but Dream’s palm and fingers remain stubbornly gentle.

George lets out a hushed noise of disapproval when Dream slides his hand away, but it’s quickly followed by a deepening kiss that makes his inhibition disappear. Dream licks slow, and patient into George’s mouth. Their lips melt into each other. 

He’s cupping the back of George’s head, only pulling closer when George pulls first. George explores the new feelings of excitement and connection slipping between them, as he gasps against Dream’s mouth. 

He feels Dream begin to pull back, and savors the warmth of his lips before they part completely. 

They lean away from each other slightly, just enough to share flushed smiles and panting breathlessness. The shade of flustered pink on Dream’s tan cheeks is George’s new favorite site to see. 

“Do you want to finish the wine?” Dream asks.

George giggles softly, and nods. 

They grab the large bottle and boxes of food, leaving the rest on the table without care. Dream can hold several in his hands and George makes a sly comment on it. He earns a light kick to the back of his calf in response. They meander down the maze of his apartment to the bedroom. 

Dream draws open the white curtains that cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sparkling gold of the city stretches below. Pale blue darkness cozies them, until George flicks on his bedside lamp to spill yellow into the room. 

“How beautiful,” Dream murmurs, silhouetted by the window’s gentle glow. George traces his eyes over the curve of his shoulders under the gray t-shirt. 

“I’m sure it hardly compares to the view you must have,” George says lightly, climbing onto his wide bed and shuffling to sit by the headboard. 

“Are you making assumptions about what kind of place I live in?” Dream turns to him in amusement. The large wine bottle dangles in his hand.

“A giant, playboy mansion.” George sits, crossing his ankles. He stabs his chopsticks into a box of rice. “With a crazy sex dungeon for ‘pretty boys’ just like me.” 

Dream rolls his eyes with a smile, as he leaves the window behind to join him on the bed. “Of course. My life would be incomplete without it.” 

He clambers onto the bed, careful not to knock over the takeout on the sheets between them, and extends the diminishing bottle to George. 

George takes it. “Am I close, though?”

Dream hums. “Maybe you should find out for yourself, sometime.” He tosses George a smile. “I have a sofa with your name written all over it.”

George shifts so he’s cozied up to Dream’s side, his knee pressing into his thigh. He takes a swirling drag from the bottle, and mutters against the glass, “Just a sofa?” 

Dream’s elbow brushes his as he draws his shoulder up. “Hm,” he considers, wrapping his arm over George’s frame. “How about a sofa, and a home-theater. And hot tub. And a bed.”

The wine bottle is tugged from George’s grasp as he smiles. He peers up at the playful gleam in Dream’s eyes, and watches as he sips the wine. The angle of his jaw and bob in his throat when he swallows is beautiful, and worthy of worship. 

George leans in, and places a warm kiss to Dream’s neck. “A bed?” His mouth lingers before pulling away. “Like this one?”

Dream looks down at him. He brushes their noses together, mouth hovering dangerously close. 

“Bigger,” he murmurs. Entranced by their closeness, the pace of George’s breath quickens away from a steady rise and fall. Dream notices, and smiles softly. 

“I like the sound of that,” George says. 

Dream kisses him. It’s chaste, soft like before, but impossibly sweet. 

He turns his head to set the wine bottle on the nearby table. As he leans away, his arm slides from behind George’s neck. 

George reaches to grab Dream’s jaw, and sharply tugs him back into a kiss. Dream lets out a noise of surprise as their mouths collide, but it quickly melts into a low note of pleasure as George sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. 

“Mm—” Dream muffles against George’s frenzied mouth. “Didn’t—know you _bite_.” 

George kisses away from his mouth and to the corner of his jaw, lips trailing over Dream’s stubble, before dipping down to the muscle on his neck. 

He bites. 

Dream moans, hand tangling in George’s hair and nails curling into his scalp.

“Your neck is sensitive,” George murmurs, placing a litter of kisses upon it. The breaths and noises that escape Dream’s mouth when he uses his lips forcefully are overwhelming. 

“Move the food,” Dream orders breathily.

George grins against the crook of his shoulder. Innocently, he asks, “Why?”

He tightens his grip on George’s hair, and pulls sharply. “ _Move the food_.”

George moves the boxes to the side table, and the second he’s settled back on the bed, Dream’s tugs him onto his lap. 

He lets out a stunned breath, but it’s muffled a moment later by Dream forcing his head back towards his neck again. George’s tongue runs a long, wet stripe up the warm skin, and Dream’s hands squeeze his sides. 

“Such a sweet mouth,” Dream mumbles as George works back up his jaw. 

George hums against the bone, moving closer to capture Dream’s lips. “You wanna feel it wrapped around you, again?”

Dream’s hands slip under George’s oversized hoodie and settle against his bare ribs. “Greedy boy.”

Their mouths find each other again, and George’s entire body seems to sigh into the contact. As Dream kisses him deeply, his strong hands travel up and cover the expanse of his back. 

George’s knees dig into the mattress on either side of Dream’s thighs. His toes press and curl into the sheets as he’s tugged closer, closer, until they’re chest to chest. 

“Please,” George says between sloppy kisses, “ _never_ wear jeans around me again.”

Dream laughs against his mouth, hands falling apologetically to soothe where the skin of George’s thighs scrape on the denim. “Should we just take them off, then?”

George raises his hips off of Dream’s lap, grinning down. “Should we? Do we _dare_?” 

His smile turns into a low, sweltering heat as he watches Dream lift the bottom of his shirt to expose his leather belt. He watches the hypnotic motions of fingers sliding over metal, unbuckling, sliding the trap from his loops. 

Dream takes the discarded belt in his hands, and slowly raises it up to George’s mouth.

“Bite,” he says softly. 

George opens his mouth, and holds the leather between his teeth. A quiet whimper passes over it as Dream pulls open his fly, hints of hair peeking out from the top of his concealed waistband. 

Dream lifts his hips to take off the constrictive pants, and brushes against George in the middle of the air. George’s hands settle on his shoulders as he kicks off the jeans for good. 

Slowly, George lowers his weight back down onto Dream’s thighs. He blows out an unsteady breath. His bulge fits perfectly against the clothed curve of George’s ass. 

“Is that better?” Dream murmurs. 

George says nothing, the taste of leather hide on his tongue keeping him in silence. He nods. 

Dream’s eyes brighten. He gingerly extracts the belt from George’s teeth. 

“Obedient,” he observes, pulling George’s face down slowly. Inches from his lips, he mutters, “little kitty.” 

George loses himself in the reconnection of their lips.

Their movements are burning and laced with need, yet they take their time as they explore each other in the new light. Dream’s lips press onto George’s cheek when his large palms dive under his shorts. George’s body feels rejuvenated, sensitive to every touch and graze. 

Their clothes are stripped away except for George’s hoodie and socks, and Dream’s soft grey shirt. They whisper of fantasies, promises, and hypotheticals. 

“I have to use condoms on the job,” George begins as he rests against the headboard, breath heavy from recently separating from Dream.

Dream pauses his rummaging through his bag for lube, ass bare on the edge of the bed.

“Because it’s policy,” George continues. “For the protection of clients and workers.”

Dream slings his leg back onto the bed, scooting back over next to him with a quick greeting kiss. “Go on.”

“I know I am clean,” George says. He’s tested regularly, under the company’s fruitful health insurance policies. “Are you?”

Dream nods. “I got tested before my first visit, and haven’t seen anyone else since then.”

 _Hasn’t fucked anyone since me. He only wants me_. 

George’s thighs squeeze together unintentionally. 

Dream notices, and slides a hand between them. He trails up, forcing his legs to spread, and his curious fingers find George’s hole.

“What are you asking me, baby?” he presses in a knowing whisper. 

“I’m not going to beg for it,” George weighs. It’s a ruse, he knows, and Dream pushes his fingers inside to elicit a gentle sound. 

“I can make you.”

“It doesn’t m-make a difference to me,” George continues, writhing and hungrily watching as Dream gathers lube from the bottle. 

“Is that so?” Dream returns to work him open, head tilting up with George’s, as he tries to stifle his moans through a clenched jaw. “ _You_ brought it up. Meaning you want something.” 

He uses a sturdy arm to tug George onto his lap again. George’s head buries into his shoulder, panting desperately. 

“Tell me what you want.” 

George mumbles the words into the gray fabric on Dream’s collarbones. 

His fingers pulse in and out, relentless. “Not good enough, George. Speak up.”

George lifts his head languidly to hover his mouth by Dream’s ear, hips grinding down against him. “Want you to fill me,” he repeats.

“Is that all?” Dream presses, smiling with the self-satisfaction that George despises more than anything else. 

He pulls his shambled brain and body together, reaching a hand down between their pressed torsos to wrap around Dream’s cock. 

“Cum inside me,” he whispers, swirling his fingers over the tip as Dream lets out a hot breath. “Make me yours.”

The words snap the last wires of restraint between them, and in a frenzy of hands and gasps and tugs, George is sinking down around Dream with a cry. Dream’s fingers curl into his ass as he begins to thrust shallow into George’s hips.

“Bounce for me,” Dream growls, yanking George onto his cock. 

George’s thighs burn as he digs his knees into the mattress. His head is thrown back, the angle driving deep in all the right places, tearing sounds from his throat he can hardly recognize. The moans can’t stop; _loud_ and dripping red. 

His skin smacks against Dream’s thighs. 

“Hit me,” he breathes. 

Dream’s fingers untangle from his flesh to draw back, and recollide on his ass with a heavy _slap_. Before George has recovered, another sharp spank follows, and his back arches as the pain sings with pleasure. 

His hands move on their own accord, nails digging into Dream’s knuckles as he pulls his palm up sharply, and presses it to his neck. 

Dream’s body stutters. 

“G- _George_ ,” he forces out, the warm pads of his fingertips resting timidly on his bruises. 

George is overwhelmed by the feeling of his hand resting there, curling protectively over his throat, while bouncing on his hard cock. 

“I t-trust you,” George assures between heavy breaths. “Squeeze. _Squeeze_.”

Dream’s fingers press down slowly on his neck. George’s eyes roll, disappearing into the sensations of _hand, skin, tighter, breathe_. His air begins to leave him, a pleasant dizzy tingle spreading down his chest and trembling in his thighs.

Dream eases up his grip, allowing George to come back down to earth again.

He can see the immediate amazement and raw, unbridled passion that sinks deep in his Dream’s eyes. 

“You _love_ that,” he says. His hips jerk up into George wildly. Between pants, he spits, “You’re the dirtiest fucking thing I’ve seen in my _life_.”

And his hand squeezes again, harder this time, but still holding back for the sake of George’s already bruised skin. 

George thinks he could stay in the bliss of his senses being flooded at every angle for the rest of his days. He could die happy here, eyelids fluttering slow as he fights the urge to fall limp; become a ragdoll on Dream’s dick. 

He eventually tips over the edge after endless stretches of fucking and bouncing, legs sore, cum splattering up onto their stomachs and staining Dream’s shirt. His face is in Dream’s hands when the man reaches his orgasm below him, lips inches away. 

George feels when Dream spills inside of him. His body shakes. 

It’s been _so long_. 

Sweet whispers fall in a flurry from Dream’s mouth as he does, and they slow but persist when he keeps George there, warm around him. 

George’s arms are slung over his shoulders. They pant together, not daring to move yet, not daring to speak. 

It feels more intimate than any of their passionate meetings in _404_ have before. George can see Dream’s face, the softness in his eyes during afterglow, the gratitude lifting the corners of his mouth that has the ability to create the harshest phrases. 

As he slowly lifts George’s hips to pull him off, they kiss gently. 

George is laid on the soft pillows and blankets as he directs Dream to the nearest post-sex kit in his apartment—the company gives plenty away as ‘goodie-bags’—and his voice is raspy from moaning. 

When Dream helps him clean this time, they pass gentle jokes and light words. It’s very open, and warm. It’s new. 

They toss their dirtied clothes in the wash, and George changes pajamas for the second time today. He gives Dream the largest pair of sweats he owns, but they still hug his ass and thighs in a delightful manner. Even better, Dream stays shirtless as they snuggle back in his bed. 

“You can go, if you want,” George says quietly when his head is resting on Dream’s chest. They’d turned on the television to play a mindless show, faded blues and purples washing into the room’s darkness. He’s gotten used to everyone, including Dream, leaving after sex was finished. 

The hand Dream has slung over George’s shoulders traces up his forearm, lightly. “I don’t want to.”

George presses his cheek into his warm skin and chest hair. His head and body buzz pleasantly; they’d worked through their bottle and moved onto an airy white. They’re both pleasantly drunk, on wine and on each other.

Dream’s fingers raise to brush through George’s hair, petting with absent softness. 

“I don’t know what this means,” George says. His hand traces small circles on the fabric of Dream’s thigh. “Any of it.”

“Me neither,” Dream murmurs, and plants a small kiss on George’s head. 

They fall into a gentle rumble of conversations about nothing, and everything. The colors on the television dance before them without purpose. They’re wrapped in the slowness of the night, and share small secrets and gentle laughter until George’s words begin to stumble. 

Sunken into fluffy pillows and blankets, George feels himself slipping into faded drowsiness in Dream’s arms. His arm is over Dream’s waist, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest eases him into limbo. 

The world melts away as they fall asleep, tangled in limbs and broken rules. George doesn’t know what will become of this, or where they will end up.

And for once, the not knowing feels okay.

**Author's Note:**

> went a bit feral, oopsie. once i started this i had to finish, had so much fun along the way and hope you enjoyed it too! haven't done a long, continuous one-shot like this before so i hope this formatting didn't drag on too much. special thank you to everyone who's encouraged me to get more comfortable with this type of writing, and to my beta & partner in crime, ari (who made the sketch of george's mask). we've been gushing abt this au for weeks now and are so glad to finally get it out there
> 
> thanks for reading and i hope to upload more soon :D
> 
> update: comment moderation is on, lmk if you don't want yours posted!


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